f OUNG  MAVERICK 


ervey 


THE  ADVENTURES  OF  YOUNG  MAVERICK 


By 


HERVEY    WHITE 


THE  MAVERICK  PRESS 
WOODSTOCK     N  Y 


Copyright    1911    Hervey  White 


CANTO     I 


My  kingdom  for  a  reader!  As  for  horses, 
I  have  a  dozen:  of  the  hobby  breed, 
Come  with  me  and  I'll  put  them  through  their  courses, 
An  easy  chair  is  all  the  coach  you  need, 
A  pipe  and  glass  were  very  well  indeed, 
Unless,  I  beg  your  pardon,  you're  a  lady, 
A  cigarette  might  come  within  your  creed, 
Though  many  think  the  custom  somewhat  shady, 
Not  being  yet  in  vogue  with  Mrs.  J.  0 'Grady. 


No  matter  what  your  sex,  or  what  your  drinks, 
I  make  my  bow,  and  give  you  hearty  greeting. 
If  any  of  you  somewhat  coldly  thinks 
My  manner  too  familiar  for  first  meeting, 
Already  meditating  on  retreating, 
One  word:  I'm  shy.  This  boldness  is  all  bluff. 
Make  not  my  modesty  my  own  defeating, 
Bear  with  me,  and  you'll  find  me  tame  enough, 
A  little  dull  at  times,  but  seldom  really  tough. 

We  used  to  always  call  our  reader  gentle, 
A  quaint  old  fashion,  and  yet  very  pretty, 
It  did  not  quite  refer  to  aspect  mental, 
Nor  was  it  faint  attempt  at  being  witty, 
Old  gallantry  is  past  now,  more's  the  pity, 
The  compliment  implied  of  gentle  birth, 
But  now  the  rule  of  money  and  of  city 
Has  swept  gentility  quite  off  the  earth, 
And  made  plutocracy;   whatever  that  is  worth. 


381657 


That's  hobby  number  one.  You  see  I'm  mounted, 
And  scarcely  finished  making  you  my  bow, 
Such  expedition  you  had  hardly  counted, 
!  did  n't  mean  to  do  it  even  now; 
I  can't  control  my  actions  quite  somehow, 
The  horse  stood  ready,  and  you  gave  attention, 
A  little  patience  surely  you'll  allow, 
I'm  off !    Hooray!   I  suffer  no  detention, 
It  is  too  late  for  you  to  contemplate  prevention. 

I  greet  you  then,  0  plutocratic  reader! 
Politeness  can't  admit  the  vulgar  mass. 
Good  form  requires  that  you  should  be  a  bleeder 
Of  that  old  goat  known  as  the  Working  Class. 
The  theme  is  odorous?  Then  let  it  pass, 
You  have  your  carriage  and  your  Paris  clothes, 
A  little  cultivation  would,  alas, 
Be  more  becoming  to  your  lifted  nose, 
But  that  will  come  with  time  and  patience  I  suppose. 

You  ask,  perhaps,  who  I  am,  which  is  proper, 
Or  would  be  were  it  not  I  am  a  poet. 
Jehovah  never  seems  to  care  a  copper 
About  our  social  lines;  if  you  must  know  it. 
He  keeps  quite  independent,  and  must  show  it 
In  solecisms  one  would  think  he'd  spare  us. 
We  do  protest,  but  have  to  let  him  go  it, 
He  being  of  that  species,  homo  rarus, 
Who  has  no  boss,  or  wife,  for  which  the  saints  prepare  us. 

At  least  you're  pleased  to  find  I  am  religious, 
And  do  the  best  I  can  to  smooth  things  over. 
O'ercoming  possibly  the  crime  prodigious 
Of  being  born  not  like  a  hog  in  clover, 
My  father  was  a  humble  Western  drover, 
You're  pleased  Tin  sure  to  see  me  here  so  easy 
Beside  you  in  the  church  like  D  in  Dover, 
I  wonder  why  all  clergymen  seem  greasy 
In  spite  of  stock  and  frock   and  ministration  queasy. 


Oh,  yes,  I  go  to  church.  At  least  I  would 
Had  I  not  more  important  things  to  do. 
I  find,  for  working,  there's  no  day  so  good 
As  Sunday;  so  I  have  to  see  things  through. 
Perhaps  I  was  intended  for  a  Jew. 
Perhaps  I  am  a  changeling.  Who  can  tell? 
And  all  is  mine  which  is  possessed  by  you; 
I  like  that  little  theory  so  well 
I  must  pause  to  inhale  the  appetizing  smell. 

On  Saturdays  I  always  eat  my  fish, 
A  second  instance  of  my  faith  in  God. 
To  eat  it  Friday  is  my  earnest  wish, 
But  then  the  price  is  up:  which  does  seem  odd. 
You'd  think  a  piece  of  halibut  or  cod, 
Being  a  staple  article  of  diet, 
Would  not  go  bobbing  like  a  piston  rod  ; 
Stock  markets,  I  am  told,  are  never  quiet; 
And  when  a  thing  is  cheap  I  simply  have  to  buy  it. 

Let's  see!  What  else?  I  always  dance  in  Lent, 
That,  you  must  know,  is  quite  the  latest  fad. 
For  Easter  Sunday  all  my  cash  is  spent 
On  gloves  that  simply  drive  the  fellows  mad. 
I  know  a  trick  in  ties  that's  not  so  bad, 
I  took  it  fom  a  count,  once  at  a  smoker. 
He  took  from  me  all  the  spare  change  I  had. 
If  I  remember  right  the  game  was  poker, 
You  see  I  know  them  all;  even  the  money  broker. 

But  if  I  were  not  clearly  what  I  am, 
The  pink  of  all  conventionality, 
You  really  would  not  need  to  give  a  damn, 
For  poets  often  come  of  low  degree. 
They  get  their  patent  from  that  high  decree 
Already  mentioned.  Which,  we  must  admit, 
Seems  somewhat  queer  to  such  as  you  and  me, 
As  if  thrown  off  in  some  abstracted  fit 
Approaching  peevishness,  when  wre  would  question  it. 


No  matter;  with  the  proper  introduction, 
I  think  we'll  journey  on  like  two  good  friends. 
I  offer  you  amusement  and  instruction, 
While  your  plutocracy  will  make  amends 
For  any  little  dullness  that  descend- 
So  often  with  the  dollars  one  inherits; 
A  compensation,  doubtless,  God  intends 
To  cheer  up  those  down  trodden  luckless  spirits 
Like  me,  who  lack  the  gold,  but  have  all  other  merits. 

Here,  just  a  little  whisper  on  the  side, 
As  in  the  gallant  days  it  was  intended, 
In  case  some  reader  lacked  patrician's  pride, 
But  was  from  vulgar  commoner  descended, 
And  had  not  'gentle'  to  his  name  appended, 
Why,  just  so  now,  dear  reader,  if,  by  chance, 
You  lack  that  cash  by  which  all  woes  are  mended, 
And  only  hold  that  native  elegance 
Which  by  all  eyes  it  seems  is  marked  upon  first  glance. 

Why,  if,  alack,  you  work  at  some  profession, 
Or  are  a  slave  to  a  big  corporation, 
And  only  have  as  personal  possession 
A  lively  wit  and  liberal  education, 
Why,  then,  keep  quiet  in  your  situation, 
Read  unmolested,  undisturbed  by  me, 
I'll  not  despise  you  for  your  humble  station, 
Although,  of  course,  you  can't  expect  to  see 
Me  give  you  nod  and  smile  in  such  grand  company. 

I  make  my  bow  to  money;  that  I  must. 
Poets  have  had  their  patrons  in  all  ages, 
And,  though  oft  times,  they  scarcely  had  a  crust, 
Or  else  were  kept  like  paroquets  in  cages, 
There  is  ;i  fame  that  all  our  hearts  engages, 
A  recognition  from  the  Ruling  Class ; 
No  vanity  but  that  our  thirst  assuages, 
No  matter  if  the  ruler  be  an  ass, 
We  still  must  tune  our  harps  to  his  sweet  voice  of  bass. 


That's  all.  That's  honest.  Now  begins  our  story. 
So  fortify  yourself  with  one  more  drink. 
If  sometimes  it  seems  weak  in  martial  glory, 
Don't  get  disheartened;  it  will  never  sink 
Into  a  question  of  mere  printer's  ink, 
Like  to  the  novels  turned  out  in  New  York : 
Dry  carcases  that  cannot  even  stink; 
No  more  of  that.  For  now  we  get  to  work, 
And  in  I  bear  the  babe;  like  the  old  fabled  stork. 

Young  Maverick  in  the  upland  pastures  lay 
Woven  as  in  the  grass.  While  star-like  flowers 
Shaking  their  petals  down  in  sweet  array 
Dappled  his  flanks  with  gentle  breathless  showers. 
The  thread  green  stems,  tangled  in  bending  bowers, 
Their  pollen  plumes  of  dust  closed  over  him, 
Enwoofing  through  the  drowse  of  summer  hours 
The  pattern  of  his  body,  head,  and  limb; 
His  color  of  pale  gold  glowed  as  with  sunshine  dim. 

His  slender  fetlocks  cooled  by  violets 
Relaxed  the  dusky  ivory  of  his  hooves, 
Whereon  faint  shadows  weaving  minuets 
Relief ed  in  mimicry  their  flowers'  loves. 
His  pasterns  reveled  in  the  denser  groves 
Of  honey  combed  red  yellow  columbine, 
Whose  drooping  crown  the  lily's  pride  reproves, 
Concealing  gold  in  faded  analyne, 
Old  rose  o'er  gold  that  still  with  hidden  gold  doth  shine. 

His  scarcely  heaving  belly  daisies  pied 
With  whiter  white  than  down  of  his  soft  fell, 
And  golden  coins  they  scattered  on  his  side, 
Laughing  to  see  they  favored  him  so  well. 
The  buttercups  gave,  too,  their  golden  spell, 
While,  high  above,  the  blood  red  lilies  stood 
Holding  their  blazoned  scutcheons  up  to  tell 
Here  slept  a  foal  sprung  from  ancestral  blood, 
Untainted  issue  of  an  acient  royal  stud. 


His  arching  neck  limned  curves  of  wave-like  motion 
Flowing  from  out  his  withers  and  his  breast ; 
As  when  the  tossing  turbulence  of  ocean 
Is  schooled  to  softer  subsidence  of  rest. 
His  slim  legs  curved  down  gently  in  their  nest; 
While  from  his  neck  out  floated  the  young  foam 
Of  his  soft  mane  into  the  daisies  dressed. 
Like  other  flower  stems  that  have  strayed  and  come 
Into  the  wealth  at  length  of  their  beloved  home. 

But  who  shall  tell  the  beauty  of  his  head? 
Or,  telling  it,  shall  hope  to  be  believed? 
Like  young  bride  poised  with  radiant,  eager  tread, 
When  first  she  cometh  home  to  be  received 
Into  the  house  her  new  lord  hath  bequeathed, 
So  stepped  this  graceful  orchid  from  its  stem, 
Poised  like  corolla  without  calyx  sheathed, 
The  flash  of  jeweled  dewy  diadem, 
That  all  flowers  bow  before  as  sweet  befitteth  them. 

The  tender  nostrils  were  scarce  fluttering  now, 
So  evenly  the  breath  flowed  in  between 
The  leaf -like  channels  to  the  caves  below, 
And  back  again  into  the  meadow's  green. 
Calm  was  the  forehead ;  and  the  eyes  unseen 
Were  fringed  about  with  gentian ;  like  deep  wells 
Where  drooping  of  the  summer  grasses'  screen 
Is  deepened  by  the  blue  of  drooping  bells, 
And  all  is  hushed  to  slumber  drowsing  where  sleep  dwells. 

The  pasture  bed  wherein  our  hero  slept 
Was  curtained  round  with  high  o'erhanging  hills; 
Faint  drift  of  cloud  the  upper  valence  swept 
And  silver  cords  of  twisted  twinkling  rills 
Swung  down  to  brush  the  golden  daffodils 
Embroidered  on  the  out  tossed  counterpane, 
As  mirthful  merboy  in  carved  fountain  spills 
The  water  that  is  blown  in  mist  of  rain 
But  with  the  warmth  and  splendor  rises  up  again. 


For  canopy,  the  deep  silk  of  the  sky 

Emblazoned  with  the  symbols  of  the  sun 

In  soft  vibration  fluttered  airily, 

Across  which,  dream  white  dragons  swift  would  run, 

Transformed  to  doves  ere  yet  their  course  was  done, 

And  doves  were  ships,  and  ships  were  women's  hair, 

Wind  blown  but  never  tiring  in  their  fun, 

They  haunted  the  faint  regions  of  high  air, 

And  threw  down  dreams  like  flowers  to  the  rapt  slumberer 

there. 
And  high  above,  but  gleaming  through  the  silk, 
Hung  the  round  sun,  the  burnished  shield  of  Mars. 
His  rays  consuming  that  pale  opal  milk 
That  floats  forever  down  from  myriad  stars. 
He  laughs  contemptuous  of  such  puny  wars, 
Aud  seeks  a  nobler  champion  in  the  earth ; 
Whose  grim  rocks,  seamed  and  broken  with  old  scars, 
Shall  yet  give  sun-rayed  flowers  in  speedy  birth, 

A  trooping  brood  of  light  to  swift  come  dancing  forth. 

The  sun,  as  well,  has  pricked  our  sleeping  steed; 
And  quick  he  rises  at  a  single  bound, 
While  all  the  bowing  flowers  with  sorrow  bleed, 
Though  he  has  given  them  but  scarce  a  wound. 
They  bend  still  lower  to  the  sacred  ground 
Whereon  his  body  left  a  glowing  heat ; 
They  crowd  each  other,  gathering  close  around, 
Catching  the  perfume  and  inhaling  it ; 
For  this  incense  to  them  is  soul  and  body's  meat. 

Only  the  lilies  flaunt  their  crimson  flags 
To  herald  the  awaking  of  their  king, 
Waiting  the  echoes  from  the  curtained  crags 
His  hoof-strokes  challenged  with  their  vibrant  ring. 
The  hovering  zephyrs  hush  their  whispering, 
Awed  to  be  near  the  place  where  he  doth  stand, 
Embody  merit  of  sunshine  and  the  spring, 
Apollo's  steed,  sprung  down  to  touch  the  land; 
His  tail  spread  wide  in  air,  pale  flaming  fire-brand. 


His  nostrils,  wide  spread  now,  are  quick  alert 
To  catch  some  scent  of  warning  from  the  breeze. 
His  eyes  are  gleaming  topazes,  begirt 
With  bands  of  white,  soft  binding  ivories; 
His  eara  pricked  forward,  keen  auxiliaries, 
Strain  with  the  rest  to  test  the  faintest  sense, 
Whether  the  message  be  to  warn  or  please, 
No  matter,  every  muscle  is  drawn  tense 
To  forward  spring  for  joy,  or  back  in  swift  defence. 

For,  since  the  autumn  with  the  flying  sun, 
(Even  the  sun  will  fly  with  fear  of  cold,) 
Scarcely  a  day  had  let  its  waters  run 
Without  some  danger's  seeming  to  unfold, 
Some  new  device  his  comrades  had  not  told 
Of  tempting  bait's  allurement  to  ensnare; 
Cunning  of  man  in  lust  for  gain  of  gold, 
To  seize  this  untamed  spirit  unaware 
And  break  it  in  due  time  to  ways  of  toil  and  care. 

For,  in  the  autumn  past,  when  men  had  come 
To  round  the  herd  up  in  the  branding  pens, 
Our  foal  of  sunbeams  fearing  some  vague  doom, 
Had  lain  well  hidden  in  the  ferny  fens. 
His  mother  knew,  perhaps,  his  finer  sense. 
She  was  a  cream  white  filly,  mountain  born, 
Herself  scarce  won  from  wild  wood  denizens 
To  nibble  the  enslaving  bait  of  corn, 
Or  in  the  stall  to  stand,  waiting  the  weary  morn. 

His  sire  was  shipped  from  sands  of  Araby 
To  droop  and  wither  in  the  mountain  air. 
Young  Maverick  was  the  single  progeny 
Of  his  waste  loins  dragged  down  by  sick  despair. 
Soon  lie  was  dead;  freed  from  his  grief  and  care. 
The  cream-white  filly  galloped  wide  away. 
Her  heart  waa  young,  and  all  the  world  so  fair; 
She  knew  no  grief.   If  some  sweet  sadness  lay 
Within  her  lingering  thoughts,  it  bade  her  be  more  gay 


And  when  the  pale  gold  foal  to  light  was  given, 
Her  memory  was  touched  with  mild  surprise 
To  see  that  fire  of  light  caught  down  from  Heaven 
Linger  and  flicker  in  the  youngling's  eyes; 
So  had  it  been  in  her  dead  Araby's. 
But  there  'twas  waning;  here  'twas  waxing  strong; 
If  it  be  grief  to  watch  the  light  that  dies, 
'Tis  joy  to  greet  a  birth  with  praise  and  song; 
And  'twixt  the  two,  in  truth,  move  our  brief  years  along, 

So  she  had  reared  her  nurseling  tenderly, 
And  shielded  him  from  watchful  gaze  of  men, 
Mindful  of  how  the  desert  parent  tree 
Drooped  when  transplanted  in  the  mountain  fen. 
So  might  they  kill  the  offspring,  if,  again, 
They  sought  to  sell  it  into  alien  lands, 
Casting  it  in  the  dusty  prison  pen, 
Cutting  its  tender  flesh  with  hempen  bands, 
And  scarring  its  fair  flank  with  fiery  seething  brands. 

Thus  he  was  left  in  ferny,  golden  grove 
When  the  harsh  drovers  came  with  curse  and  shout. 
Sharp  strain  for  her  poor  panting  mother  love 
To  join  alone  in  her  companion's  rout, 
To  miss  his  nuzzling  nose  her  flanks  about 
And  know  that  he  was  lying  all  alone 
Beyond  the  reach  of  hasty  drover's  scout; 
But  what  grim  wolf  might  come  while  she  was  gone, 
Leaving  for  her,  returning,  but  a  grisly  bone? 

Or  if  some  stealthy  mountain  lion's  tread 
Should  make  him  think  his  mother's  hoof  had  broke 
The  snapping  twig ;  and  he  should  lift  his  head 
Only  to  meet  the  fatal  leap  and  stroke : 
Already  her  fond  heart  all  fears  awoke, 
And  she  would  fain  return  and  get  him  now 
Had  not  the  drover's  stinging  whip-lash  spoke, 
And  made  her  plunge  into  the  herd  below, 
Descending  now,  alas,  the  bending  foot-hill's  brow. 


And  all  the  other  mothers  gave  her  glance 
Of  scornful  pity  or  of  stern  reproof. 
The  gentle  geldings  even  looked  askance 
And  kept  their  brothers'  sympathy  aloof. 
They  could  not  think  Love  hazarded  such  proof, 
She  surely  sought  the  lordly  stallion's  glance, 
Who,  treading  near  her  on  proud  lustful  hoof, 
Showed  willingness  to  make  the  first  advance, 
Curving  his  neck  with  pride  in  grave,  majestic  dance. 

But  the  sad  mother,  pained  and  pitiful, 
Flashed  out  her  teeth,  and  showed  a  fiery  eye. 
'A  thin  pretense!'  said  brood  mares  dutiful, 
1  Wait  till  we  show  her  when  she  passes  by ! ' 
She  gave  them  speedy  opportunity, 
Dashing  into  their  midst  to  seek  escape; 
Whereat,  each  one  withdrew  as  she  came  nigh, 
Leaving  an  open  passage-way  agape 
Through  which  Sir  Libertine  might  contemplate  his  rape. 

Sweet  sense  of  virtue  in  the  female  breast! 
Delicious  shudder  of  self  praising  good! 
How  many  matrons  draw  about  their  nest 
The  leaf-like  curtains  of  their  motherhood, 
And  turn  deaf  ears  to  hapless  womanhood 
Outside  the  boundaries  battling  with  the  storm, 
Imagining  their  owrn  strength  has  withstood 
The  winds;  when  'twas  their  nest  that  kept  out  harm, 
Biting  of  bitter  frosts,  and  Hunger's  wild  alarm. 

The  cream  white  filly  had  a  pair  of  heels 
That  lordly  libertine  might  well  respect. 
So  in  among  the  geldings  swift  he  wheels, 
With  jest  he  knows  will  ready  have  effect, 
For  impotence  is  eager  to  affect 
A  Laughter  at  which  knowledge  is  denied, 
Thinking  thereby  to  cover  its  defect, 
And  hide  in  bluster  what  it  lacks  in  pride; 
A  si^ht  more  pitiable  can  hardly  be  descried. 


The  jest  was  relished  and  the  laugh  went  round 
As  all  trooped  down  into  the  rounding  pen. 
Even  the  sober  matrons  were  not  bound 
To  quite  conceal  their  satisfaction  when 
Some  bolder  gossip  told  the  joke  again. 
Of  course,  they  answered  with  'O  fie's!'  and  'Pshaw's!' 
And  said,  such  things  were  better  left  to  men, 
And  sent  their  colts  far  off  to  play,  because 
There  are  some  subjects  only  meant  for  wise  mammas. 

And  then  they  came  into  the  dusty  yards, 
Where  sat  the  master  on  his  steed  of  steeds, 
Keen  eyed,  moustachioed,  glancing  thitherwards, 
As  the  white  filly  through  the  gate-way  leads. 
He  speaks  but  briefly ;  though  each  drover  heeds : 
'Where  is  her  colt,  the  foal  of  Araby?' 
To  which  the  drover,  humbly  waiting  pleads, 
'I  think,  sir,  'twas  the  mountain  lion's  fee, 
For  when  we  found  the  dam,  alone  there  wandered  she.' 

The  master's  eyes  flashed  anger  out  like  fire: 
'Think  you,  you  knave,  that  white  mare  would  survive? 
That  mountain  lion  gaining  his  desire, 
Should  bear  the  foal  away,  and  she  alive? 
Open  the  gate,  and  let  her  outward  drive; 
And  you,  boy,  follow  her;  and  take  good  care 
She  give  you  not  the  slip.'  Like  bee  from  hive, 
The.  anxious  mother  swiftly  forth  did  fare, 
Taking  the  upward  hills,  winging  the  buoyant  air. 

Long  swinging  leaps  she  took ;  spurred  on  by  pain , 
Blindly,  not  heeding  stones  or  treacherous  holes; 
Stumbling  at  times,  but  catching  stroke  again, 
Anxiety  in  trembling  yet  controls : 
So  flee  the  shadows  of  self -tortured  souls 
Who  haste,  and  fall,  and  haste,  in  nervous  dread, 
Anticipating  ever  funeral  tolls, 
Forgetting  that  their  bodies  long  are  dead, 
Borne  on  the  wings  of  Fear  with  dark  plumes  weakly  spread, 


She  took  without  a  pause  the  upward  cliffs, 
Leaping  o'er  rocky  seam  and  yawning  chasm, 
Up  from  whose  phosphic  caverns  came  faint  whiffs 
Of  putrid  poisons  breathing  rank  miasm ; 
She  did  not  heed  the  choking  gasping  spasm; 
On,  on,  with  snorting  plunge,  she  kept  her  course, 
Before  her  ever  looming  vague  phantasm 
Of  wild  beast's  slaughter  and  the  death  cry  hoarse, 
Haunted  by  her  own  fate  forewarned  in  fierce  remorse. 

And  when,  at  length,  she  gained  the  ferny  fen, 
She  gave  one  piercing,  whinnying,  tender  neigh, 
Trembling  to  think  that,  maybe,  ne'er  again 
Her  eyes  should  see  the  sun  that  made  her  day; 
And  when  the  foal,  quick  hearing  where  he  lay, 
Upstarted  at  the  call  he  loved  so  dear, 
And  bounding  came  to  greet  her  on  her  way, 
She  fell  all  trembling,  as  o'ercome  with  fear, 
Then  sank  down  dead,  without  a  parting  moan  or  tear. 

The  youth  sent  out  to  follow,  in  due  season, 
Came  to  the  spot  where  the  dead  mother  was, 
Much  grieved,  and  speculating  on  the  reason 
She  lay  thus  peaceful  on  the  crumpled  grass. 
He  did  not  know  a  shaft  of  joy  could  pass 
Into  the  heart  and  leave  it  withering; 
As  lightning  cuts  the  oak  tree  down,  alas! 
While  flies  away,  with  upward  beating  wing, 
The  free  soul,  knowing  not  Death's  envious  aspic  sting. 

He  said  the  filly  had  but  overdone: 
Heart  failure,  as  the  doctors  call  it  now; 
To  call  it  heart  success  were  nearer  on 
The  truth;  as  all  but  doctors  will  allow. 
Then  he  set  thinking  and  devising  how 
He'd  drive  the  little  whimpering  nickering  colt 
Down  to  the  valley  ranehe,  to  there  avow 
The  thing  had  happened  not  through  any  fault 
Of  his;  being  far  away,  when  fell  the  fatal  bolt* 


But  the  young  sunbeam  was  not  easy  driven. 
He  skipped  about  around  his  mother's  bier 
As  though  flashed  down  from  mirror  out  of  Heaven, 
Not  to  be  fastened  to  this  earthly  sphere. 
The  youth  attending  to  his  lasso  gear, 
Forgot  to  veer  his  frightened  courser  round 
The  filly's  body.  And,  o'erwrought  with  fear, 
The  good  horse  stumbled  on  a  little  mound, 
Sending  his  rider  rolling  o'er  the  reluctant  ground. 

The  youth,  half  crying  through  his  threats  and  curses, 

Ran  to  re  clutch  the  broken  bridle  rein. 

For,  in  the  rules  of  ranging,  nothing  worse  is 

Than  to  lose  seat;  no  matter  what  the  pain. 

The  horse  was  quicker  yet.  And,  up  again, 

He  dashed  off  toward  the  rariche  with  bantering  neigh, 

The  swinging  stirrups  maddening  his  brain 

Seemed  like  the  chase  of  Death,  in  wild  affray, 

Hot  breathed  and  white,  to  mount  and  guide  him  towards 

his  prey. 
The  youth,  at  bestj  could  only  follow  after, 
Muttering,  and  stumbling  over  rocks  and  stones; 
Fore  relishing  the  jeers  and  merry  laughter, 
Wishing,  almost,  he  had  some  broken  bones, 
So  suffering  for  thoughtlessness  atones  ; 
As  'twras,  he  saw  he'd  have  to  stand  the  drinks 
To  celebrate  his  brush  with  Davy  Jones  ; 
And  then,  Don  Pancho's  gaze!   Ah,  that's  what  sinks 

The  heart  of  gasping  drover,  wondering  what  he  thinks! 

Alone,  the  golden  colt,  left  with  its  mother, 
Nips  at  the  grass,  all  innocent  of  death. 
For  Birth  is  ever  Death's  own  dearest  brother, 
And  years  must  pass  ere  the  breach  wideneth. 
The  infant's  gasp  is  like  the  dying  breath. 
What  matter  if  the  mother  lay  so  still? 
It  is  still  water,  so  the  proverb  saith, 
That  lies  most  deep.  If  Love  had  all  his  will, 
Birth,  Death,  and  Life,  God's  deeps,  would  one  same  si- 
lence fill. 


So,  gently  played  he:  dabbling  with  the  brooks, 
Plucking  the  autumn  flowerets  by  their  heads, 
Chasing  cloud  shadows  into  shady  nooks, 
Testing  the  mosses  for  their  mattress  beds, 
Thus  Time  and  Childhood  weave  their  endless  threads, 
Until,  at  evening,  when  the  herd  returned 
In  the  rich  wealth  of  purples  and  of  reds, 
His  play-mates'  calls  up  through  the  twilight  burned, 
He  joined  them,  well  content.  The  mother  never  yearned. 

And  if,  at  first,  he  lacked  the  suckling's  teat, 
He  found  a  way  to  steal  such  sustenance. 
And,  even  in  childhood,  stolen  sour  is  sweet, 
And  dangers  risked  give  music  for  the  dance. 
The  rainy  winter  came  with  swift  advance, 
And,  deep  within  the  covered  hills,  the  herd 
Found  shelter  from  the  winter's  violence, 
Far  from  the  ferny  fen,  where  no  ghost  stirred, 
And  haunting  memories  thence  spoke  not  a  single  word. 

But  there  was  talk  amongst  the  thoughtful  mares 
That  this  young  scape-grace  bore  no  legal  brand. 
They  looked  with  pride  on  their  own  growing  heirs, 
Baptized  with  fire  by  sacred  priestly  hand ; 
They  told  of  how  in  far  off  early  land 
There  was  a  wizard,  Peter  Maverick, 
Who  gathered  all  the  unclaimed  in  one  band, 
No  doubt  through  some  Satanic  wily  trick, 
Creating  for  himself  an  anti-bishoprick. 

For,  if  the  world  can  have  an  antichrist, 
Why  not  I  pray,  as  well,  an  antibishop? 
In  horse  world  it  is  probably  the  nighest 
They  come  to  our  more  complicated  dish  up. 
At  all  events  old  Maverick  could  fish  up 
Sonic  sort  of  argument  for  evil  doing; 
Claiming,  for  his,  all  the  good  things  we  wish  up 
In  our  own  private  heaven  we  keep  brewing, 
Foreseeing,  after  death,  a  long  eternal  chewing. 


At  any  rate  the  brood  mares  were  concerned 
For  this  young  maverick  without  a  master. 
They  called  on  all  the  geldings  the  most  learned, 
Provoked  that  their  conclusions  came  no  faster. 
They  could  not  meditate  such  dire  disaster 
As  doubting  anything  that  sounded  collegey; 
Though  feminine  impatience  is  a  plaster 
To  force  a  head  on  any  kind  of  knowlede,  she 
Soon  gave  this  up  as  being  merely  terminology. 

For  how  can  geldings,  gelded,  still  beget? 
x\nd  how  can  scholars,  schooled,  foretell  the  future? 
Through  training  their  dull  eyes  are  backward  set. 
Why  look  for  nerves  in  some  old  rotting  suture? 
Napoleon,  encountering  his  Blucher, 
Did  not  sit  down  and  study  Marathon. 
I  own  the  illustration  scarce  will  suit  your 
Fastidiousness;  but  then  my  rhyme  were  gone. 
And,  caught  in  rhyming  shallows,  I  must  sail  head  on, 

How  often  wise  professors  in  their  physics 
Have  pointed  out  how  flying  was  absurd, 
Only  to  be  upset  by  some  shrewd  skeesics 
Who  never  thought  to  take  them  at  their  word. 
Doubtless  the  ignoramus  had  not  heard 
Of  all  their  weighty  weary  explanations 
How  man  could  never  hope  to  be  a  bird, 
O'ercoming  Isaac  Newton's  gravitations, 
The  rarer  media,  and  other  like  vexations. 

Still,  I  suppose,  professors  must  profess; 
Especially  in  the  things  they  do  not  know. 
Society  would  all  too  quickly  guess 
The  riddle  if  but  once  she  were  let  go. 
Then  set  the  breaks  and  let  her  drive  more  slow. 
We  must  not  reach  Millennium  too  soon. 
'Twere  shameful  pity  to  give  Greece  a  blow, 
And  drive  her  aged  goddess  to  the  moon, 
Dancing  in  dynamite  some  classic  rigadoon. 


Before  we  leave  the  subject,  altogether, 
I  can't  resist,  though,  one  fling  at  that  fowl 
Scratching  in  dunghills  to  inform  us  whether 
We  have  or  have  not  an  immortal  soul. 
Unlike  bis  predecessor,  the  wise  owl. 
He  crows  aloud  his  one  word,  Evolution, 
Which,  when  interpreted,  is  but  avowal 
There's  no  unravelling  the  hlind  confusion, 
And  so  the  soul  flies  free  in  spite  of  his  pollution. 

For  what's  the  use  of  science  in  religion? 
It  has  its  use-,  doubtless,  otherwhere. 
To  state  one's  preference  for  pig  to  pigeon, 
Is  not  to  prove  there  is  no  buoyant  air. 
If  they  prefer  the  mud,  why,  leave  them  there! 
So  much  for  dunghills,  and  so  much  for  science! 
We'll  back  again  to  our  much  puzzled  mare, 
And  leave  the  matter  to  the  schools'  alliance, 
Bidding  them  our  good  day,  and  our  defiance. 

The  geldings,  after  talking  matters  over, 
Decided  that  the  youngster  was  a  sport. 
Not  of  that  kind  that  makes  the  world  its  lover, 
But  of  the  scientific  Darwin  sort. 
He  was  the  other,  too.  That's  why,  in  short, 
We  chose  him  for  our  hero.  But  please  wait ; 
Remember,  now  we  stand  in  Learning's  court, 
And  be  not  ever  here  importunate, 
Tis  always  Learning's  way  to  dally  at  the  gate. 


They  counseled  it  were  better  to  do  nothing; 
To  let  the  matter  rest,  and  wait  for  Time 
To  close  the  breach  with  necessary  stuffing, 
As  she  will  do  in  least  congenial  clime. 
Nor  could  the  mares  oppose  this  thought  sublime. 
They  let  the  colt  run  with  their  sons  and  daughters. 
Which,  even  had  they  thought   it  a  great  crime. 
lie  would  have  done:   although  that  little  matter-; 
For  childhood's  ceaseless  play  is  like  the  flow  of  waters. 


Not  so,  however,  at  the  Spanish  raneho; 
They  would  not  leave  the  colt  to  run  unclaimed. 
The  ever  watchful,  ever  keen  Don  Pancho 
Rebuked  his  drovers  making  them  ashamed: 
'Bring  in  the  colt.  But  look  it  be  not  maimed; 
No  hurt  or  blemish,'  said  he,  'anywhere, 
And  I  will  have  the  lucky  captor  named 
For  a  new  saddle  from  the  store's  fresh  ware; 
We'll  choose  the  best  there  is  and  call  the  matter  square.' 

And  thus  it  was  the  watchful  ones  were  ready 
With  every  shrewd  device  a  rancheman  knows 
To  snare  the  little  wildling,  ever  steady 
In  his  determination  not  to  close 
With  any  bargain  thrust  beneath  his  nose. 
If  they  had  joined  together  in  the  foray 
He  had  been  easy  victim,  I  suppose, 
But,  eager  for  the  saddle  and  the  glory, 
Each  man  worked  on  alone.  Hence  come  our  song  and  story. 

Behold,  we  see  him,  then,  in  June's  fair  pasture, 
Unscarred,  untouched  by  any  human  hand, 
Free  from  the  ownership  of  any  master; 
For  so  the  law  reads  in  that  Western  land: 
A  yearling  running  without  mark  or  brand 
Belongs  to  no  one.  He  who  can  may  take  him; 
May  shoot  him  dead  without  a  reprimand, 
Or  better,  slightly  cripple  him,  and  break  him; 
His  Property  henceforth:  so  the  range  law  doth  make  him. 

But,  until  branded,  he's  a  maverick. 
I  hope  you  will  excuse  the  repetition. 
I  want  the  meaning  in  your  mind  to  stick, 
So  I  insist  upon  the  definition. 
You  see,  'tis  a  precarious  condition, 
For  freedom  ever  is  beset  with  dangers; 
One  works  his  way  and  pays  a  big  tuition 
In  that  great  school  where  all  the  world  are  strangers, 
And  rules  are  strict,  as  well  as  with  the  Western  rangers. 


( Ihild  of  the  sun  and  wind  he  stands  as  free 
As  flickering  lights  beneath  his  long  dark  lashes. 
As  zephyrs  in  his  mane  in  threnody 
Whisper  their  love  in  fairy  fitful  flashes, 
Or  giant  lightning  in  the  pine  top  crashes. 
Free  in  the  zephyr,  or  the  hurricane, 
In  leaping  flame,  or  fluttering  of  pale  ashes, 
Free  as  was  brotherhood  before  young  Cain 
Dealt  Abel  that  foul  blow,  precursor  of  all  pain. 

How  beautiful  he  stands!  Thrilled  with  emotion, 
Expectant,  eager,  filled  with  joy  and  fear, 
Flash  of  pale  foam  on  life's  unconscious  ocean, 
Half  in  the  future,  half  still  hovering  here, 
That  trembling  betwixt  laughter  and  a  tear 
Fluttering  upon  fair  April's  petal  cheek, 
That  pause  before  the  words  '  I  love '  come  clear 
From  breathless  lover  daring  yet  to  speak, 
And  having  spoken  finds  his  strength  grown  strangely  weak 

So  stands  Young  Maverick  on  his  lilting  limbs, 
Catching  the  air  with  nostril  ear  and  eye, 
Till  all  the  valley  in  his  spirit  swims 
Like  vision  in  a  glass  of  destiny. 
Then  sweet  calm  settles  with  a  soothing  sigh. 
He  knows  the  herd  is  coming  up  the  slope, 
Will  in  due  season  reach  the  passes  high, 
No  fear  tonight  of  cunning  coil  of  rope, 
P'resh  snare  of  watchful  man  with  which  his  fears  must  cope 

daily  he  canters  toward  a  rocky  ledge 
By  which  his  boon  companions  must  arrive. 
The  flowers  dance  with  him  to  the  very  edge, 
The  grasses  in  his  footsteps  leap  and  thrive, 
A  faint  sweet  murmur  like  a  happy  hive 
Conies  up  from  all  the  grass  folk  on  the  plain. 
The  very  stones  and  pebbles  seem  alive 
And  chatter  as  his  hooves  leap  up  again, 
Then  settle  back  content  filled  with  their  glowing  gain. 


His  wistful  whinny  calls  an  echoing  note 
Back  from  the  voices  of  the  waiting  rocks, 
Like  wood  thrush  answering  with  eager  throat 
The  song  his  mate  with  her  spring  love  unlocks. 
The  gurgling  rills  hush  all  their  throbbing  clocks 
By  thrusting  rushes  in  the  channel's  course, 
Muffling  the  waterfall's  concussion  shocks 
With  winds  that  touch  them  with  such  soft  remorse 
They  drift  like  mourning  veils  bereft  of  life  and  force. 

Then  comes  the  herd  up  trooping  through  the  passes, 
The  yearlings  on  ahead  in  sportive  play, 
A  gallant  company  of  lads  and  lasses, 
Free  from  restraint  of  elders  far  away, 
Like  to  the  rosy  clouds  of  coming  day 
Who  know  the  sun  awaits  them  on  the  hills, 
Flushed  with  emotion  at  his  first  faint  ray, 
Till  suddenly  his  sight  their  splendor  fills, 
And  the  gray  earth  all  glows  with  the  deep  joy  that  spills. 

They  greet  their  playmate  with  a  shrilling  chorus 
That  startles  the  far  outward  rising  peaks. 
But  lower  cliffs  take  up  the  sound  sonorous 
Applauding  with  a  thousand  whinnying  squeaks, 
Young  Maverick,  too,  his  answering  echo  speaks, 
And  canters  toward  them  with  such  gracious  sweetness 
They  quite  forget  their  little  clans  and  cliques, 
And  feel  their  mutual  love  with  calm  completeness, 
Like  swift  firm  river's  flow  bound  by  its  very  fleetness. 

They  meet,  they  shower  on  him  their  soft  caresses, 
Swift,  furtive,  tender,  like  the  love  of  youth, 
A  touch,  a  glance,  a  breath,  a  word  that  blesses, 
Deeper  than  long  confessions  of  Love's  truth, 
I  know  not  anything  so  sweet,  in  sooth, 
As  childish  Love's  first  chaste  virginity, 
Free  from  all  morbid  after  haunting  ruth, 
Flash  of  the  moment,  sunshine  on  the  sea, 
When  skies  are  overcast  and  waves  toss  gloomily. 


How  all  of  us  have  watched  young  children  play 
When  we  unknown  to  them  stayed  in  the  gloom, 
Perhaps  a  window  open  to  the  day, 
Where  we  sat  prisoned  in  some  alien  room, 
Their  prattle  floated  in  like  sweet  perfume 
Of  orchards  long  forgotten  in  our  cares, 
Filling  the  sordidness  with  gracious  bloom 
That  covered  up  our  heartache  unawares 
And  bore  us  back  to  God,  and  humble  childish  prayers. 

Now  these  mild  yearlings,  intermingling,  weave 
A  changing  pattern  in  the  troop's  advance. 
Dapple  of  silver-gray  and  white  relieve 
The  sombre  blacks  and  browns,  and  them  enhance. 
The  bay's  rich  red  gives  tone  and  elegance, 
The  chestnut-sorrels  flash  a  golden  glow, 
The  red  roans  give  pale  contrast  in  the  dance, 
And  threading  in  and  out,  half  gold  half  snow, 
Young  Maverick's  back  and  mane  like  fluttering  lilies  blow 

Their  tramp  is  of  a  thousand  beating  hearts, 
Hearts  of  the  happy  when  youth's  blood  leaps  high. 
Their  eyes  are  like  the  fires  that  Cupid  starts, 
Kindled  with  sunshine  caught  from  out  the  sky. 
Their  noble  heads  are  their  own  heraldry. 
Their  hoof  strokes  like  good  coin  give  out  clear  ring 
As  on  the  level  mesa  high  and  dry 
All  with  one  impulse  break  to  galloping, 
Leaping  like  flowerets  out  into  the  wealth  of  spring. 

They  pause  when  they  have  reached  an  open  summit, 
A  wide  arena  on  a  sanded  knoll 

On  which,  had  Heaven  dropped  descending  plummet, 
T  would  prove  the  centre  of  that  mountain  bowl. 
Like  clouds  afar  the  snowy  peaks  did  roll 
Into  the  overland  of  ice  and  snow, 
Barrens  of  purity  for  untried  soul, 
But  where  no  flesh  and  blood  will  care  to  go, 
Congealed  virginity  no  mortal  OUght  to  know. 


But  nearer  by,  and  shutting  out  this  cold, 
The  foot-hills  hung  their  heavy  tapestries ; 
Calm  as  the  peaks  were  they,  and  quite  as  old, 
But  blessed  with  rich  experience  of  trees, 
The  wild  birds  sang  therein  their  melodies, 
And  eft-like  things  crept  in  and  out  the  moss, 
And  winging  flights  of  golden  honey  bees 
Swept  down  the  sheltered  valley  wide  across, 
Whose  floor  took  on  in  gain  what  the  hills  gave  in  loss. 

The  yearlings  now  are  marshalled  for  their  play. 
Young  Maverick  is  leader  of  the  ring. 
Ranged  in  wide  circle,  all  alert  are  they 
To  catch  the  call  of  his  first  challenging. 
He  gallops  to  the  centre,  whinnying, 
Then  round  and  round  the  wheel  begins  to  turn, 
Slowly  at  first,  with  gentle  even  swing, 
Then  faster,  as  enthusiasms  burn 
So  fast  that  gray  from  bay  one  scarcely  can  discern. 

Then,  with  a  scream  of  maddening  delight, 
He  dashes, too,  into  the  whirling  rim. 
Like  swimmer,  with  bared  body  gleaming  white, 
Shouting  to  feel  the  whirl-pool  over  him, 
Round,  round,  like  fleck  of  foam  upon  the  brim, 
He  urges  speed  with  swift  increasing  stride, 
The  very  dizziness  makes  light  grow  dim, 
Till  force  centrifugal  is  overtried, 
And  bursting  in  wild  wreck  the  atoms  whirl  aside. 

Like  flowers  that  envious  April  holds  in  keeping 
Within  her  apron,  chilled  with  lingering  frosts, 
Until  May's  rogueish  cupids  catch  her  sleeping, 
While  heralding  the  coming  Pentecost, 
In  contemplation  blank  they  first  are  lost, 
Then,  drawing  with  a  shout  their  golden  bows, 
Till  fiery  arrows  every  thread  have  crossed, 
And  gaping  rents  the  precious  wealth  disclose 
Of  quince  and  almond's  blush  and  paling  tuber-rose, 


And  then  when  April,  waking,  sees  mishap, 
And  starts  up  weakly  as  from  some  vague  dream, 
And  views  the  wanton  riot  in  her  lap, 
And  flies  the  hills  across,  o'er  wood  and  stream, 
How  all  the  drunken  cupids  dance  and  scream 
To  see  the  flowerets  rolling  everywhere! 
Her  very  foot-prints  are  with  white  agleam! 
And,  look!  Advancing  through  the  vacant  air, 
Dawns  the  faint  form  of  May,  the  fairest  of  all  fair; 

So,  like  to  all  those  scattered  flowerets  sweet, 
These  yearlings  gather  in  fresh  fragrant  groups, 
Poising,  and  rallying  on  breathless  feet, 
Ingathering  the  tangent- taking  troops, 
Except  Young  Maverick,  who  never  droops, 
But  true  to  circle  as  to  physics'  law 
He  still  whirls  on  in  steadier,  speedier  loops 
Like  fierce  haired  comet,  vacuum  cannot  thaw, 
Startling  the  satellites  with  gaseous  yawning  maw, 

Round,  and  still  round  the  sandy  circle  fleeting, 
Feet  locking  and  unlocking  with  precision, 
But  thrilled  with  life,  as  of  a  true  heart  beating, 
Not  like  cold  steel  of  clever  mechanician, 
We  would  not  hold  mechanics  in  misprision, 
But  life  is  still  more  wonderful  than  death, 
And  ever  we're  enraptured  with  the  vision, 
Perfection,  that  the  heart  yet  quickeneth, 
Singing  the  song  of  life  with  steady  flowing  breath, 

Round,  round  he  races,  with  thin  nose  extended, 
With  neck  outstretched  like  arrow,  speeding  on, 
His  back  laid  level,  scarce  a  line  is  bended, 
His  legs,  alone,  a  swift  automaton; 
Behind,  before,  in  steady  unison 
Beating  the  breathless,  gaping  atmosphere, 
Winged  like  the  wheeling  screaming  pelican, 
Without  a  pause,  without  a  swerve  or  veer, 
Force  for  the  nebula  of  some  new  forming  sphere, 


Until,  like  flotsam  drifting  in  the  eddy, 
The  other  colts  are  sucked  into  the  swirl 
Of  the  great  maelstrom  swinging  ever  steady, 
Wavering  and  wishful  like  a  timid  girl; 
But  once  she  feels  her  lover's  strong  arms  curl 
Around  her  waist,  her  feet  are  like  young  flames, 
Winged  in  the  dance,  in  wide  pavilion's  whirl, 
Forgetful  of  all  stations,  places,  names; 
So  they  are  charmed  again  in  childhood's  'wildering  games. 

And  once  again  the  hollow  earth  resounds 
With  the  fierce  throbbing  of  a  thousand  feet. 
And  once  again  the  circling  air  astounds 
The  gentle  zephyrs  coming  in  to  greet; 
And  they,  too,  join  the  maddening  whirlwind  fleet, 
Forgetting,  all  alike,  their  lord's  commissions, 
Caught  in  the  fervor  of  the  cyclone's  heat, 
Licked  by  the  flames  of  fiery,  frenzied  passions, 
Dancing  like  dervishes  in  weird  fanatic  fashions. 

Again,  the  climax  reached,  the  tissues  burst; 
Again  the  atoms  scatter  in  recoil; 
But,  in  the  dust,  e'en  fresher  than  at  first, 
Circles  the  golden  bird  in  constant  coil, 
No  fleck  of  foam  as  yet  his  plumes  to  soil, 
No  smirch  or  stain  upon  his  shining  coat, 
Free  as  a  spirit  from  the  earth's  turmoil, 
Light  as  a  butterfly  to  gaily  float 
Over  the  waters  wild  hurled  from  the  chasm's  throat. 

Again  repeating,  and  again  entrain, 
The  scattered  atoms  round  the  force  all  gather, 
To  be  thrust  off  and  then  drawn  in  again, 
Thrust  off,  drawn  in,  lashed  into  milk-white  lather; 
The  Sun  grows  weary  of  the  contest,  rather, 
And  hides  his  sleepy  eyes  behind  Night's  curtain, 
Content  that  child  is  worthy  of  its  father, 
That,  of  all  creatures  his  wide  sight  can  girt  in, 
This  foal  is  champion :  that  is  acknowledged  certain . 


Therefore,  he  hangs  a  yellow  banner  free, 
Enmeshed  with  spangles  of  translucent  light, 
On  which  is  blazoned  the  sire's  heraldry, 
The  golden  crescent,  the  sweet  Queen  of  Night; 
No  star,  as  yet,  has  twinkled  into  sight, 
Alone,  the  slender  horn  hangs  soft  in  air, 
Bathed  in  the  roseate  glow  of  yellow  light, 
Pledge  of  the  Arab  sire  and  mountain  mare, 
And  still  their  foal  speeds  on,  and  so  we  leave  him  there. 

Calm  of  the  evening,  gentle  as  the  smile 
Of  some  great  angel  fresh  from  Paradise, 
Breathe  on  us  now  for  yet  a  little  while 
The  fragrant  air  from  golden  desert  skies! 
Let  us,  the  moment,  hear  thy  symphonies; 
And  list  the  melodies  of  moon  and  sun, 
Planets  of  Life's  and  Death's  eternities, 
Chant  of  the  ages,  which  have  ne'er  begun, 
And  ne'er  will  end  the  race,  but  ever  onward  run. 


CANTO     II 


Perhaps  'twere  fitting  to  make  some  apology 
For  taking  readers  all  so  far  afield, 
Away  from  cities  and  their  criminology 
Into  the  crudeness  mountain  deserts  yield ; 
Then,  too,  my  humble  birth  must  stand  revealed, 
For  how  could  I,  if  nurtured  a  patrician, 
Know  of  these  things  from  gentle  folk  concealed, 
Unless,  indeed,  I  were  some  sage  magician, 
A  trade  that  now-a-days  will  scarce  get  recognition. 

Let  me  then  humbly  here  at  once  confess 
Myself  of  that  vile  species  called  clod-hopper; 
Son  of  the  soil  from  out  the  middle  West, 
Whose  wildest  dreams  of  gold  have  turned  out  copper. 
I  would  not  for  the  world  say  aught  improper, 
If  I  but  knew  what  was  propriety; 
But  how  can  you  expect  to  put  a  stopper 
Into  a  mouth  of  my  variety 
Uncouth,  untrained  by  any  good  society? 

Forgive  me  then,  dear  reader,  and  forbear, 
If  I  should  sometimes  say  what  I  ought  not. 
'Tis  all  through  ignorance,  I  gravely  swear; 
I  have  the  greatest  reverence  for  that  rot 
You  call  good  breeding,  though  you  have  it  not, 
The  pith  and  substance  of  your  very  being, 
That  makes  you  seem  a  saint  when  you're  a  sot, 
A  moral  one,  I  mean;  so,  now  agreeing, 
We'll  journey  on  together;  seen,  I  trust,  and  seeing, 


Another  thing  thai  wilts  a  would  be  poet 
Is,  he  is  often  hard  pressed  for  his  rhymes; 

Tis  best,  in  the  beginning,  you  should  know  it, 
'Twill  help  you're  understanding  him  at  times. 
He  often  speaks  of  dollars,  meaning  dimes, 
Forgive,  I  pray,  the  vulgar  illustration; 
I  did  not  mean  on  setting  out,  betimes, 
To  give  this  thrust  at  your  most  sacred  station, 
And  sound  the  underpinning  of  your  whole  foundation, 

No:  poets  must  be  driven  by  their  muses; 
Nine  of  them,  like  a  very  cat-o'-tails. 
And  if,  flat  out,  Melpomene  refuses, 
Such  being  oft  the  case  with  all  females, 
To  give  the  word  we  ask  with  prayers  and  wails, 
There's  nothing  for  it  but  to  close  our  eyes, 
To  jib  or  luff  our  idly  flapping  sails, 
To  take  a  new  tack,  which,  if  not  pure  lies, 
Is,  at  the  best,  I  fear,  a  doubtful  compromise. 

Enough  of  poets:  though  a  word  on  cities, 
Before,  unto  our  tale,  we  hurry  on. 
It  were,  indeed,  a  thousand,  thousand  pities 
If  we  should  slight  that  modern  mastodon, 
Pre-post historic  world  phenomenon, 
I'm  sorry  I  can  think  of  nothing  bigger, 
New  York  will  scarce  o'erlook  the  damage  done 
In  giving  her  such  paltry,  sorry  figure, 
Chicago,  standing  by,  to  ever  twit  and  twig  her. 

We  love  her  though.  We  love  dear  old  New  York. 
Not  quite  because  she  swallows  all  our  money; 
Nor,  yet,  because  of  that  faint  smell  of  pork, 
(Against  her  creed  to  eat  it:  which  is  funny.) 
The  lard,  perhaps,  exudes  when  warm  and  runny 
From  out  her  pores.  They  linger,  those  stale  fats, 
Soaked  in  through  German  generations  sunny, 
In  stuffing  future  sausage  Astorcrats, 
T<>  set  the  style  for  us  in  trousers  and  in  hats. 


But  whom  we  love,  we  chasten;  like  the  Lord. 
Cite  for  us,  if  you  can,  more  high  example. 
Not  that  he  claims  a  patent  in  his  word, 
'Tis  not  our  plan  on  any  rights  to  trample. 
We  only  hold  it  out  to  you  as  sample 
To  show  we  stand  within  authority ; 
And,  having  now  made  explanations  ample, 
We'll  reinforce  with  extra  simile, 
Till  all  of  you,  at  length,  with  us  do  well  agree. 

Take  first  that  highest  love  of  man  and  wife: 
Did  she  not  swear,  'love,  honor,  and  obey'? 
And  when  a  woman  swears,  now,  on  your  life, 
You  know  she  means  whatever  she  may  say; 
With  men,  of  course,  'tis  quite  the  other  way, 
But,  if  we  have  established  that  one  point, 
Which  is,  the  woman  loves,  haste  on  I  pray, 
Nor  stop,  man's  wounded  vanity  to  oint 
Setting  the  argument,  thereby,  all  out  of  joint. 

The  wife,  then,  loves.  We  love  her  for  that  love, 
And  leave  the  husband  to  his  chastening. 
We  would  not  think,  her  action  to  reprove, 
That  is  her  priviledge,  earned  by  promising, 
He  learns  the  truth  of  'Death,  where  is  thy  sting!' 
First  of  the  benefits  of  being  married. 
She  has  her  satisfaction,  and  her  fling, 
And  though,  at  times,  both  seem  a  trifle  harried, 
We  would  not  dare  to  hint,  their  wedlock  had  miscarried, 

No:   we're  conservative.  Say  what  you  will, 
We  still  stick  to  that  sacred  institution 
Of  tying  Gill  to  Jack,  and  Jack  to  Gill, 
For  life,  for  death,  Hell,  Heaven,  dissolution: 
Eternity  can't  dodge  our  resolution, 
God  made  it  so,  you  know  you  can't  deny  it, 
And  we  made  God:   see  Spencer's  Evolution, 
And  now  it's  done,  we're  going  to  stand  by  it; 
As  for  rebellion,  well,  we'd  like  to  see  you  try  it. 


The  women  are  the  ones  who  try  it  most. 
What  woman  ever  could  withstand  a  dare? 
We  like  to  think  they  do  it  at  their  cost; 
Though  facts  won't  bear  us  out:  not  everywhere. 
We  bide  our  time,  unwilling  to  despair; 
Meanwhile,  we  get  a  little  welcome  rest: 
Take  out  our  old  pet  vices  for  the  air, 
Chat  with  a  friend,  and  say  all's  for  the  best; 
A  consolation  sweet  that  stands  most  any  test. 

The  trouble  with  the  women  is,  God  bless  them, 
They're  marching  out  under  the  open  sky. 
Some  people  think  the  Devil  doth  possess  them, 
But  that's  not  our  point.  Never  mind  now  why. 
Not  that  we're  sure  they  march  to  victory; 
Sufficient  for  the  moment  that  they  march, 
And,  if  they  like  it,  who  are  you  and  I 
To  say  they  shall  not  try  for  Triumph's  arch, 
E'en  though,  in  building  it}  they  must  tear  down  a  church? 

But  when,  to  us,  they  seem  the  least  judicious 
Is,  judging  men  by  their  own  woman's  code. 
It  never  has  been  ours;  nor  now  our  wish  is 
To  undertake  that  strait  and  narrow  road. 
Too  many  rich  fields  are  spread  out  abroad; 
'Tis  not  our  will,  or  wisdom  to  neglect  them. 
We  reap  the  harvests  where  the  grain  was  sowed ; 
Grateful  for  gifts,  and  loyal  to  protect  them, 
Nor  is  it  our  least  thought  to  stupidly  reject  them. 

But  woman,  judging  from  her  womanhood, 
Just  where  she  got  it  we'll  not  now  discuss, 
Forbids  all  things  that  are  not  for  her  good, 
And,  in  her  rage,  gets  doubly  virtuous; 
Poor  matrimony  soon  is  all  a  muss; 
The  man's  fault,  too,  that  as  a  thing  of  course, 
She  makes  the  wound,  is  shocked  to  see  the  pus, 
Leaps  on  her  virtue's  very  highest  horse, 
And  if  not  alimony,  seeks,  at  least,  divorce. 


Well,  let  her  go;  perhaps  she  will  come  back 
When  she  has  regulated  all  the  laws. 
Perhaps  she'll  find  another  town  to  sack, 
For  towns  are  many  for  young  Freedom's  cause. 
What's  good  for  braves  may  not  be  good  for  squaws; 
We'll  change  the  proverb  of  the  goose  and  gander; 
'Tis  woman  made  and  doubtless  has  its  flaws. 
The  fire  has  still  for  us  its  salamander, 
A  woman's  form,  you  know,  to  tempt  us  to  philander. 

So,  husbands,  take  your  punishment,  and  smile; 
And,  cities,  take  yours,  too;  you  well  are  able. 
And  if  it  seems  to  you  our  caustic  bile 
Smacks  of  the  feminine,  from  out  its  Babel, 
Why  may  we  not,  for  once,  just  turn  the  table? 
And  though  we  are  a  he,  and  you,  a  she, 
Reflect,  it  is  the  times  that  are  unstable, 
And  women  take  the  seats  where  men  should  be, 
And  men  get  dazed,  at  times,  and  scream  hysterically. 

But  now,  phenomenon  that's  always  curious, 
We  have  you  well  prepared  for  a  good  scolding, 
We  find,  we  do  not  feel  the  least  bit  furious, 
But  rather,  in  our  loving  arms  enfolding, 
The  metaphor,  we  fear,  is  hardly  holding, 
Must  crack,  indeed,  if  not  outright  must  burst, 
Unseemly  sight  to  all  who  are  beholding, 
For  both  of  us  are  at  our  very  worst, 
All  through  the  fault,  beside,  of  being  badly  versed. 

So,  we  will  love  you;  being  our  whim  to  do  so, 
When  women  love  the  most,  look  out  for  scratches. 
We'll  love  your  vices,  even.  Though  to  view  so, 
Is  not,  I  fear,  just  where  the  little  catch  is. 
What  if  there  is  some  brimstone  on  your  matches? 
They  make  for  that  the  quicker,  cleaner  blaze. 
A  little  splutter,  and  a  few  burnt  patches 
Are  not  to  set  our  horrors  all  agaze; 
Condemning  naughty  games,  and  censuring  naughty  plays. 


Speaking  of  plays,  'tis  not  because  they're  naughty, 
But  rather  that  they  are  not  anything 
That  makes  us  feel  toward  them  a  trifle  haughty, 
Stale  pap  prescribed  by  managerial  ring; 
Those  fat  necked  drummers  manage  everything 
That  can  be  turned  to  money  in  their  pants; 
Art,  Literature,  and  Music  have  no  wing 
To  fly  beyond  their  smoking,  guzzling  grants; 
Or,  having  it,  perforce  fly  far  to  foreign  France. 

Why  is  it  that  a  people  of  intelligence, 
New  Yorkers  all  assume  they're  the  elect, 
They  certainly  do  dress  with  some  cheap  elegance, 
In  borrowed  clothes  from  Paris,  I  suspect: 
But  grant,  for  argument,  their  intellect, 
How  is  it  that  they're  led  round  by  the  nose 
Where  any  advertiser  may  direct, 
To  pay  their  money,  and  show  off  their  clothes, 
And  set  their  sage  approval  on  the  thing  that  goes? 

All  that  the  advertisers  need  to  say 
Is,  everyone  is  reading  this  new  book, 
Away  they  run  on  that  same  very  day 
To  their  department  store  to  have  a  look  ; 
They  see  the  crowd,  the  bait,  but  not  the  hook; 
They  bite,  they  buy,  they  read,  all  in  a  minute, 
Not  stopping  once  to  see  they  have  mistook 
The  advertiser's  notice  for  what's  in  it, 
That  'tis  the  same  old  tune  played  on  the  same  old  spinet. 

One  reason  for  this  folly,  and  the  main  one, 
Is  that  all  of  the  buyers,  to  a  man, 
Are  women;  if  the  bull  may  prove  a  plain  one: 
I'll  state  it  better  if  I  find  I  can. 
Already  I  am  struggling  with  the  van 
Of  fierce  denial  that  this  thing  is  true. 
Vim  see  I  know  the  arguments,  and  plan 
Of  your  campaign   more  than  you  think  I  do, 
And  am  prepared  to  meet  them  with  my  plans  for  you. 


The  women  buy  the  books.  I  say  again 
If  not  themselves  performing  the  transaction, 
They  hint  what  they  would  like  unto  the  men 
And  get  the  thing  they're  after  to  a  fraction. 
If  man  should  undertake  through  his  free  action 
To  buy  a  book,  and  read  it  for  himself, 
He  must  consider  in  the  first  reaction 
'Twill  have  to  lie  on  table  or  on  shelf 
For  wife,  for  daughter,  sister,  ever  a  common  pelf. 

Result,  he  does  not  buy.  But,  at  the  club, 
Will  talk  things  over  if  there's  one  who  cares 
To  listen  to  this  literary  grub 
Who  deals  in  non-negotiable  wares ; 
But  oftener  his  hearer  sits  and  stares. 
He  is  too  busy  with  his  making  money, 
Or  losing  it,  which  still  less  leisure  shares, 
For  talk  of  literature  on  matrimony, 
While  for  humanities,  the  very  word  sounds  funny. 

So,  women  rule;  and  think  it  is  their  right 
To  do  so:  as  they  always  did,  in  fact. 
It  may  be,  when  they've  reached  Parnassus'  height, 
At  present,  they're  but  in  the  riot  act; 
They  do  show  sometimes  taste,  and  often  tact, 
Praising  an  author  who  is  young,  romantic, 
Who  is  by  classics  and  the  critics  backed, 
And  gives  them  happy  ending  of  love  frantic, 
With  other  fol-de-rol,  and  literary  antic. 

But  women,  first  of  all  must  be  in  fashion. 
That  is  their  nature:  they  must  run  in  droves. 
To  lead,  of  course,  is  worth  the  wasting  cash  on, 
No  matter  if  'tis  but  in  length  of  gloves. 
To  stand  alone  there's  hardly  one  who  loves 
To  do  it  for  the  right  of  her  opinion ; 
And  advertisers,  wise  in  ways  of  doves, 
Make  sound  of  thousand  wings  with  wind-mill  pinion, 
Throw  out  some  musty  corn,  and  rule  the  whole  dominion. 


The  writers,  then,  like  shrewd,  hard  headed  farmers 
Produce  the  grain  and  fruit  most  quickly  grown  ; 
Concerned  more  with  their  catchy  selling  charmers 
Than  with  the  quality  of  seed  that's  sown. 
Most  of  them  have  no  land  they  really  own ; 
They  rent  a  little  garden  not  too  dear, 
Throw  on  the  fertilizer,  that,  a  loan, 
Produce  the  greatest  seller  of  the  year, 
And  let  the  advertisers  take  the  gold,  I  fear. 

They  do  not  know,  they  have  not  even  heard 
That  writing  may  be,  and  has  been  an  art. 
If  when  in  high  school  they  did  catch  a  word 
To  that  effect,  'twas  but  a  poor  spent  dart 
That  wounded  not,  nor  left  the  slightest  smart; 
They  prosed  along  with  Shakespeare  and  with  Scott, 
Learned  a  few  passages  to  say  by  heart, 
Which,  after  examinations,  were  forgot ; 
Then  out  they  went  prepared  to  try  the  author's  lot. 

"But,  notwithstanding  them,  and  their  editions, 
It  still  remains  a  comfort  to  our  souls, 
That  writing  is  an  art,  true  to  traditions, 
Though  not  for  them  its  lofty  music  rolls. 
There  is  a  law  of  beauty  that  controls; 
And,  while  they're  hacking  for  the  magazines, 
Who  knows  but  some  firm  hand  may  seize  the  scrolls 
And  pen  sweet  words  that  picture  magic  scenes 
Where  men  are  kings  of  light  and  women  are  their  queens? 

Of  course,  the  thing  once  done,  our  smart  New  Yorker 
Would  never  know,  till  London  told  him  of  it. 
He  being  of  that  type  of  biped  porker 
Who  only  sees  his  own  immediate  profit. 
His  hat  is  ready  though,  and  he  will  doff  it 
Once  he  gets  cue  from  some  staid  Englishman, 
But  poetry  not  franked,  he  can  but  scoff  it, 
It  is  the  easiest  way,  the  safest  plan; 
Mistakes  arc  awkward  things  for  leaders  in  the  van, 


The  opera  is  a  safer  thing  to  judge, 
That  being  shipped  from  Europe  ready  made. 
One's  sure  of  that;  and  does  not  need  to  budge. 
Opinion  given  cannot  be  gainsayed 
Why,  only  read,  and  see  how  much  we've  paid! 
It's  all  first  class;  so  give  it  good  applause. 
Besides,  your  jewels  are  so  well  displayed; 
And  other  charms,  not  mentioned  here,  because 
'Twould  put  me  in  the  reach  of  moral  censor's  claws. 

Then  music  has  the  human  interest, 
For  singers  and  musicians  lead  such  lives ! 
'Twould  give  the  dullest  entertainment  zest 
To  tell  who  are  their  husbands  and  their  wives. 
The  advertiser,  too,  at  this  connives, 
And  gives  out  doubtful  rumors  to  the  papers, 
To  keep  the  gossip  going  he  contrives 
All  sorts  of  scandals  and  unheard  of  capers 
Urged  on  no  doubt  to  this  by  jewellers  and  drapers. 

Some  think  that  chamber  music's  more  respectable; 
They  read  about  it  in  the  fashion  books, 
Then  offer  entertainment  most  delectable, 
Where  everybody  sits  on  tenter  hooks 
For  fear  'twill  be  discerned  from  word  or  looks 
She  does  not  understand  what  it's  about. 
Musicians  have  so  many  twists  and  crooks, 
'Tis  very  difficult  to  make  them  out; 
And  these  are  world  famed  artists,  that  is  past  a  doubt. 

The  men  don't  mind  so  much  if  they  are  caught 
In  ignorance  about  this  tweedle-deeing  ; 
They  say  as  much  when  the  champagne  has  brought 
Their  senses  to  an  honest  way  of  seeing. 
So  while  their  wives,  alert,  are  refereeing, 
They  take  the  moment  for  a  quiet  nap; 
They've  been  at  work  all  day,  poor  dogs,  decreeing 
What  shall  be  done  in  case  that  some  mishap 
To  the  financial  market  come  like  thunder-clap. 


'And,  after  all,'  they  say.  'these  dainty  fellows 
Would  never  stand  a  minute  in  the  pit. 
When  the  hear  growls  and  mad  bull  wildly  bellows, 
They'd  be  wiped  out,  there  is  no  doubt  of  it.' 
Still  they're  content  thus  drowsily  to  sit 
And  let  the  tweedle-deeing  have  its  show, 
'Tis  less  exertion  than  to  counterfeit 
A  conversation  that  has  little  go; 
It  costs  more;  but,  you  know,  the  women  want  it  so. 

So  Music,  like  her  sister,  Poetry 
Looks  to  an  older  land  with  gentle  sighing, 
And,  with  her  gold,  across  the  greeting  sea, 
The  season  over,  we  may  see  her  flying. 
Poor  Poetry,  unpaid,  is  slowly  dying; 
For  wings  of  song,  though  in  themselves  immortal, 
Need  earthly  nourishing,  there's  no  denying; 
Our  nightingale  is  else  a  mourning  turtle 
Weeping  her  love  that's  dead  before  the  Heavenly  portal. 

Painting,  the  darker  sister,  has  a  method, 
As  method  has  most  every  gay  brunette, 
Of  binding  round  her  sons  the  mystic  ephod 
That  makes  them  proof  to  poverty  or  debt, 
They  always  have  a  dollar  for  a  bet ; 
And  food  of  some  kind  always  is  at  hand ; 
And  'hand  to  mouth'  is  no  sad  epithet 
For  them,  who  taste  the  flesh-pots  of  the  land, 
And  pass  them  by  with  laugh  and  scornful  waive  of  hand, 

They  are  the  artists  who  respect  their  art ; 
And  consequently  they  are  much  respected. 
They  heed  no  handicap  when  at  the  start; 
There  is  not  one  so  poor  or  so  neglected 
Who  may  not  dream  that  Heaven  is  reflected 
From  out  his  eyc^  onto  his  canvas  dim; 
Or,  drawn  in  badly,  cannot  be  corrected 
Through  patience,  and  the  study  of  a  limb 
Foreshortened,  as  the  model  now  is  seen  by  him; 


He  works,  he  sings,  he  whistles  and  grows  handsome, 
Unconscious  of  the  one  as  of  the  other, 
He  does  not  realize  he  pays  a  ransom 
Impossible  to  any  ordinary  brother; 
He  sometimes  half  regrets  his  doting  mother 
Should  see  things  differently  from  worldly  eyes, 
And  plead  with  him  his  nobleness  to  smother, 
Accept  a  clerkship  and  trust  for  a  rise, 
To  be  respectable,  in  short,  if  such  within  him  lies. 

For  w,hile  he  has  respect,  as  I  have  said, 
He  never  is  respectable  at  all. 
Respect  is  gained  without  another's  aid. 
Respectability  is  social; 
He  does  not  hear  Society's  proud  call; 
So  she,  perforce,  must  give  him  recognition, 
He  builds  his  house;  puts  plaster  on  the  wall 
With  his  own  hands,  with  flourish  of  magician, 
Singing  his  own  self-praise,  like  inspired  rhetorician. 

This  in  his  youth,  before  he  feels  the  pressure 
Of  our  commercialism  called  New  York, 
Before  the  publishers  with  cambric  measure, 
And  fabled  intellect  like  ancient  stork, 
Test  his  rich  canvasses  and  call  them  work, 
Whereas,  they  have  been  up  to  this  time  play, 
They  hint  of  money,  which  they  sometimes  fork 
To  artists,  as  an  ox  gets  dribs  of  hay, 
And  then  they  grow  quite  haughty,  sending  him  away. 

In  time,  if  he  is  weak,  they  have  him  down, 
Painting  their  own  ideals  and  not  his. 
Not  their  ideas;  those  they  do  not  own, 
For  Nature  deals  not  in  anomalies; 
They  have  a  shifting  standard,  though,  which  is 
Half  vulgar,  quite  correct,  the  thing  that  goes, 
The  magazines  are  full  of  this  cheap  fizz 
That's  said  to  be  champagne,  but  never  flows, 
And  only  leaves  a  stench  next  day  within  the  nose. 


Ah,  those  advert isments  called  magazines, 
How  many  murders  to  their  doors  are  traced ! 
You'd  think  their  editors  were  kings  and  queens, 
The  men  fat  necked,  the  women  flabby  faced; 
They  bear  the  titles  of  true  heirs  displaced 
By  publishers,  who  hold  these  in  cheap  slavery, 
Doling  them  out,  sometimes,  a  little  taste 
Of  stocks  or  shares  or  other  miscalled  knavery, 
That  to  such  sycophants  no  doubt  seem  passing  savory. 

There  are  those  artists  who  are  strong  enough 
To  quite  resist  this  plutocratic  pull, 
Who  keep  their  youth,  and  rather  like  the  rough, 
Wild  mountain  pasture  of  the  roving  bull; 
In  time,  'tis  said,  one  gets  his  belly  full, 
But  by  that  time  he  may  pass  off  as  lion  ; 
And  wives  of  plutocrats,  not  quite  so  dull, 
Throw  out  good  gold  to  such  eccentric  scion; 
His  judgments,  pictures,  even  oaths,  they  quite  rely  on. 

'Tis  ludicrous  to  see  them  dressed  like  dolls, 
Bowing  and  smirking  in  the  city  manner; 
White  fronts,  black  backs,  and  all  the  fol-de-rols, 
While  Father  is  a  carpenter,  or  tanner. 
But  ladies  all  agree  to  vote  the  banner 
Of  gentle  breeding  on  their  native  merits; 
In  truth,  real  worth  is  not  a  bad  japanner, 
And  artists  ever  are  congenial  spirits; 
They  know  good  food,  as  well,  and  all  the  brands  of  clarets. 

In  short,  they  take  the  city  as  they  find  it, 
And  all  they  find  they  know  is  merely  sham; 
No  native  growth  of  manhood  stands  behind  it, 
A  smirk  of  London,  Paris,  Amsterdam, 
Nothing  American:  their  butcher's  ham 
Is  even  tricked  out  with  a  foreign  Beal: 
Some  coronet  before  not  worth  a  damn 
Now  furnishes  his  lordship  a  good  meal, 
Though  vulgar  parent  hogs  still  in  New  York  must  squeal. 


But  now  enough  of  polished  piggeries, 
Enough  of  shams,  and  sham  society! 
Back  to  the  mountain  desert's  fastnesses, 
Borne  on  the  winds  that  leap  the  tallest  tree, 
Wings  of  the  wind  our  fancy's  imagery, 
Back  till  the  snowy  peaks  around  us  swim, 
Circling  the  greening  wells  of  valleys  free, 
Lost  in  the  swirling  mists,  or  smiling  dim, 
As  Love  is  seen  through  tears  when  Faith  discovers  him. 

Don  Pancho  was  a  man  of  scanty  words, 
As  men  of  resolution  often  are. 
A  fine,  bold  type  of  wild  Creation's  lords, 
His  keen,  kind  face  without  a  flaw  or  scar 
Of  dissipation  of  his  youth  to  mar ; 
A  man  of  forty  years,  and  still  unwed, 
Reserved  in  confidence,  yet  never  far 
In  sympathy  where  wounded  feelings  bled, 
A  heart  both  kind  and  true,  but  tempered  by  his  head. 

He  loved  to  rule,  and  brooked  the  rule  of  none. 
His  hirelings  worshipped  him,  and  feared  alike. 
His  commendation  warmed  them  like  the  sun. 
His  questions  could  a  frigid  terror  strike 
Into  the  half-breed  conscience  of  low  tyke 
Who  sought  to  cover  up  with  lying  smile 
Some  petty  theft  or  carelessness  belike. 
But  coward  cunning  knew  no  subtle  wile 
To  circumvent  his  gaze  even  the  briefest  while. 

There  was  one  servant  whom  he  held  most  dear, 
Like  to  a  son  he  held  him  in  his  sight. 
His  name  was  Marselino,  and  his  clear 
Dark  eyes  were  filled  with  that  white  liquid  light 
The  stars  shake  down  from  purple  skies  at  night; 
His  hair  was  of  the  night  where  shadows  rear 
Their  dusky  screens  against  the  vision's  flight; 
Or  where  the  light  dies  out  on  marge  of  mere 
Whose  middle  surface  fades  and  flickers  far  and  near. 


The  man  and  master  often  rode  together 
Out  o'er  the  wide  expanses  of  the  range 
Through  the  long  summer  of  unchanging  weather, 
For  hardly  is  the  winter  there  a  change, 
Spring  speeding  on  sad  Autumn  to  derange, 
Eternal  blue  of  skies  and  flow  of  wind, 
Sometimes  a  blast  from  snowy  peaks  makes  strange 
The  tender  face  of  Spring,  and  shows  how  thinned 
Last  Summer's  flowerets  are,  like  smiles  where  Love  has 

sinned . 

Like  spring  and  winter  of  their  changeless  clime 
Were  these  two  horsemen  riding  o'er  the  plains: 
The  man,  just  seasoned  with  the  winds  of  time, 
The  youth,  untouched  by  disappointment's  pains; 
The  future  heavy  with  imagined  gains, 
The  present  sweet  with  freshly  flowing  waters, 
Green  banks  abrim  from  early  rushing  rains, 
The  laughter  as  of  many  sons  and  daughters 
Before  grim  Jealousy  their  common  friendship  slaughters. 

So  now  we  see  them  riding  on  ahead 
Intent  on  capturing  the  Arab  colt. 
Their  little  company  they  always  led. 
Gregorio  followed  next:  a  curly  dolt 
Riding  a  black  horse  called  The  Thunderbolt, 
Curvetting,  capering,  and  whirling  round, 
His  back  kept  level,  never  giving  jolt 
To  careless,  laughing  rider  in  his  bound, 
His  fleet  hooves  playing  games  o'er  the  uneven  ground. 

Gregorio  had  a  shock  of  bushy  curls 
Protruding  from  beneath  hia  hat's  great  brim. 
In  spite  of  lavish  gifts  to  all  the  girls, 
There  never  seemed  to  be  one  lacking  him. 
He  had  a  natty  figure,  plump,  and  trim, 
A  little  fat,  from  laughing  overmuch, 
Or  was  it  from  the  cream  he  loved  to  skim? 
For  milk  this  satyr  ne'er  was  known  to  touch; 
His  boast  wab  cream  and  kisses,  cakes  and  cooks,  and  such, 


.  He  always  had  a  merry  song  at  heart, 
And  all  his  heart  lay  full  upon  his  lips. 
In  saddle,  or  in  bivouac,  he  would  start 
The- love  chants  of  those  merry  fellowships, 
Twiddling  his  shirt-front  with  his  finger-tips 
In  imitation  of  a  mock  guitar, 
The  other  hand  performing  fretless  slips, 
His  wide  mouth  bellowing  themes  of  love  or  war, 

Till  echoes  rang  refrain  in  the  wild  canyons  far. 

Joaquin  rode  next:  a  thin*  tall  Indian,  lank 
With  many  winters  on  his  beardless  face. 
His  small,  keen  eyes  ne'er  from  a  peril  shrank. 
With  but  a  word,  he,  ready  in  his  place, 
Stood,  without  occupying  seeming  space. 
Should  any  younger  hero  enter  in, 
He  never  seemed  to  fear  his  own  disgrace, 
But  let  who  would  a  reputation  win, 
And  only  when  all  failed,  made  ready  to  begin. 

The  closing  of  this  little  cavalcade 
Was  Carlos  and  Miguel.,  two  dusk  Apollos, 
Who,  chatting  quietly,  together  stayed, 
Skimming  the  ground  like  dark,  low  flying  swallows; 
They  liked  to  take  the  gently  dipping  hollows 
Riding  full  speed,  and  keeping  hand  in  hand, 
Then,  breaking  where  the  rising  hill  slope  follows, 
They  joined,  with  shout,  their  comrades'  greeting  band, 
To  fall  back  once  again  upon  the  level  land. 

Their  comradeship  was  never  called  in  question 
By  master  or  companions  in  arranging 
The  daily  tasks;  and  if,  on  first  suggestion 
It  seemed  they  might  be  parted,  quick  exchanging, 
Another  would  speak  up,  his  plans  deranging, 
That  these  two  might  together  still  be  kept; 
It  would  have  seemed  like  day  from  light  estranging 
Had  any  circumstance  between  them  crept; 
And  all  these,  simple  folk  most  certainly  had  wept. 


Their  wives  were  sisters;  and  they  shared  together 
A  common  household;  and  their  children  reared 
In  common  love;  each  hardly  knowing  whether 
His  own  child  or  his  friend's  was  most  endeared. 
Authority  of  either  one  appeared 
Quite  equal,  to  the  little  growing  minds; 
Alike  they  both  were  loved,  alike  were  feared; 
Nor  did  the  mothers  show  of  envious  signs 
To  make  distinction  rise,  which  young  affection  blinds. 

Today,  all  hearts  were  happy.   For  the  capture 
Of  any  animal  gives  young  men  sport. 
Even  old  thin  Joaquin  still  knew  that  rapture, 
Though,  on  his  face,  no  joy  would  e'er  report. 
He  would  have  made  a  great  success  at  court, 
Or  playing  poker,  which  is  much  the  same; 
Demeanor  was,  with  him,  a  hostile  fort. 
Which  shows  no  guns,  nor  lack  yet  of  the  same, 
But  leaves  the  world  to  guess  the  hazard  of  the  game. 

Gregorio  gave  huzzah  when  full  in  view 
The  herd  of  horses  through  the  pass  came  out, 
Proud  stallion  first  as  is  his  right  to  do, 
Close  followed  by  the  humbler  common  rout, 
The  yearlings  fringing  all  the  sides  about; 
While  in  the  rear,  with  wide  suspecting  eyes, 
The  shy  Young  Maverick,  like  a  timid  trout 
That  has  some  knowledge  hooks  lie  under  flies, 
And  much  too  cautious  is  at  every  bait  to  rise. 

What  his  astonishment  to  see  six  men 
Equipped  with  lassos  partially  concealed 
Come  riding  upward  toward  his  mountain  glen 
With  purpose  in  each  eye  and  hand  revealed ; 
Joaquin,  alone,  saw  neither  horse  nor  field, 
But  broke  out  carelessly  in  some  old  song, 
Whereat,  the  others,  seeming  quick  to  yield, 
Joined  in  with  chorus,  riding  slow  along, 
Don  Paneho  with  the  rest,  lost  in  the  sounding  throng. 


The  horses  felt  at  once  the  calm  and  cheer, 
And  scarce  gave  heed  unto  their  masters'  presence; 
Some  cropped  the  grass  or  bushes  growing  near, 
And  all  grew  gentle  as  tame  flock  of  pheasants 
Invaded  by  a  strolling  group  of  peasants ; 
All  save  Young  Maverick,  who,  swift  as  light, 
Darted  across  the  intervening  pleasants 
And  in  the  thorn-tree  disappeared  from  sight, 
Extinguished  like  a  star  in  the  soft  clouds  of  night. 

Don  Pancho  gave  no  sign  of  oath  or  word 
To  show  his  disappointment  at  that  trick  ; 
No  single  muscle  of  his  dark  face  stirred, 
And  yet  a  change  went  over  him  so  quick 
It  made  the  heart  of  gay  Gregorio  sick ; 
For  he  was  guilty  of  the  first  halloo, 
And  he  was  also  most  impolitic 
In  getting  out  his  lasso  in  full  view, 
And,  quite  apart  from  that,  he  felt  contrition,  too, 

For  he  had  been  the  youth,  the  year  before, 
Who  could  not  catch  the  colt,  because  he  fell; 
And  now  'twas  pressing  on  a  much  chafed  sore 
To  furnish  out  a  second  tale  to  tell. 
It  would  be  told ;  he  knew  that  very  well ; 
And  girls  would  laugh,  and  men  would  slyly  wink, 
And  most  of  all  he  now  must  note  the  spell 
That  overcame  his  master.  One  would  think 
He  suddenly  were  stone.  Gregorio's  heart  did  sink. 

For  if  a  sword  had  flashed  beneath  the  sun 
And  cut  the  light  from  off  Don  Pancho 's  face, 
It  could  not  show  more  change  than  it  had  done 
In  this  swift  flash  of  gold  across  the  place, 
And  all  was  sudden  changed  in  one  brief  space, 
A  sternness  as  of  steel  was  in  his  lips, 
Of  sympathy  or  softness  not  a  trace, 
And  fear  came  over  all,  as  when  eclipse 
Shadows  the  smoking  sun  and  day  in  darkness  dips. 


I  think  that  Arab  sire  were  much  beloved, 
Or  else  his  offspring  had  the  magic  fire 
That  leaves  no  casual  looker  on  unmoved 
Until  it  stirs  the  depths  of  his  desire. 
What  is  the  fatal  gleam  that  all  admire, 
And  all  give  worship  to  in  spite  of  reason, 
Forgetting,  for  the  moment  all  things  higher, 
To  think  things  higher  were  committing  treason, 
Until  the  charm  is  passed,  as  all  charms  do  in  season. 

Some  people  have  that  fatal  flame  within  them 
That  maddens  all  it  shines  on,  like  the  moon; 
For  I  am  sure  those  stories  have  truth  in  them, 
How  bodies  warp  and  shrink  and  wither  soon 
Exposed  beneath  the  tropic's  lunar  noon; 
Or,  if  not  true,  they  surely  are  symbolical 
Of  passions  that  engulf  us  in  typhoon, 
And  other  cyclones  equally  diabolical, 
Leaving  us  doubly  plucked  both  as  to  hair  and  follicle. 

At  all  events,  Don  Pancho  turned  his  horse 
And  gave  his  orders  in  a  quiet  tone, 
Not  doubting  all  opinions  would  endorse 
The  plan  of  action  he  had  formed  alone; 
Gregorio,  having  reasons  of  his  own, 
Was  first  to  turn  away  and  take  the  lead. 
Miguel  and  Carlos  hoping  to  atone 
For  former  carelessness,  fell  in  with  speed; 
But  Joaquin,  lingered  yet  as  though  he  scarce  agreed. 

Don  Pancho's  plan  was  to  surround  the  grove 
And  drive  the  colt  back  to  the  quiet  herd 
Which  Marselino  would  keep  in  close  drove, 
Ready  to  turn  it  at  the  given  word 
Back  through  the  pass,  and  cage  the  wilful  bird 
High  in  the  upland  pasture.-;  which,  though  wide 
Were  of  familiar  heath,  and  much  preferred 
By  the  young  wildling  now  on  the  outside, 
Free  as  the  mountain  deer,  and  fleeter  in  his  pride. 


Joaquin  still  lingered,  and  Don  Pancho  saw 
He  waited  invitation  to  speak  out. 
But,  to  the  master's  pride,  his  word  was  law; 
And  now  he  could  not  brook  this  hireling  lout 
To  tell  him  he  was  wrong;  and  turn  about 
The  order  given  and  now  half  obeyed. 
Two  generals  were  sure  to  end  in  rout. 
Besides,  he  felt  that  were  the  case  delayed 
All  plans  were  useless  and  the  quarry  widely  strayed. 

And  so  Joaquin  was  left  to  join  the  rest, 
And  ride  in  humble  silence  toward  the  wood. 
Perhaps,  he  thought,  it  might  be  for  the  best; 
Don  Pancho  could  not  well  have  understood; 
Or  would  not,  rather,  even  if  he  could: 
For  Joaquin's  plan  was  simply,  to  return, 
And  come  another  day  when  matters  should 
Have  calmed  a  little,  and  the  colt  should  learn 
They  meant  no  harm  to  him  with  ropes  and  glances  stern. 

Don  Pancho  watched  him  pass  with  some  compunction, 
Suspecting  that  his  plan  might  be  more  wise ; 
But  who  of  us  can  check  by  stern  injunction 
Our  vanity  when  wanton  passion  flies? 
Who  is  there  of  us  who  so  much  as  tries? 
We  let  our  wilful  temper  take  its  course. 
And  only  when  the  ruin  round  us  lies, 
Do  we  perceive  what  diabolic  force 
Has  winged  us  on  to  failure,  suffering,  and  remorse. 

The  die  was  cast.  The  order  had  been  given. 
The  thorn-tree  grove  was  speedily  surrounded. 
The  eager  quest  undoubtedly  had  thriven 
Had  vim  and  vigilance  the  matter  bounded. 
But  Joaquin's  fears  now  proved  to  be  well  grounded; 
The  colt  did  not  see  fit  to  quit  the  cover; 
And  though  with  shouts  and  threats  the  rocks  resounded, 
Don  Pancho  waited  vainly,  like  lorn  lover 
Whose  mistress  wills  not  yet  her  person  to  discover. 


'Dismount,'  he  said,  'and  penetrate  the  thicket. 
He  shall  not  so  escape  us  with  his  cunning. 
Were  he  as  wary  as  a  timid  cricket 
We'll  have  him  out  to  take  his  morning's  sunning.' 
The  men  leaped  to  the  ground,  and  soon  were  running 
Among  the  dwarfish  trees,  that  caught  their  clothes, 
And  clung  like  creditors  with  constant  dunning, 
And  made  them  quite  as  angry,  I  suppose; 
Gregorio  got  a  scratch  straight  down  across  his  nose. 

The  thicket  flanked  the  banks  of  a  dry  hollow, 
The  outlet  of  a  steeper  banked  ravine. 
And  through  the  midst  of  this  a  trail  did  follow, 
A  vague  and  tortuous  path  the  shrubs  between ; 
Three  paces  off,  it  never  would  be  seen; 
Young  Maverick,  however,  someway  found  it; 
And,  sheltered  by  its  kindly  offered  screen, 
Determined  quickly  he  would  deeper  sound  it, 
And  note  for  future  use  how  the  land  lay  around  it. 

Now  this  same  path  two  mountain  lions  made 
In  going  to  and  from  their  savage  den. 
And  thus  it  led  up  through  the  thorny  glade 
Until  the  narrowing  rocks  closed  in  again, 
Young  Maverick  seemed  shut  up  as  in  a  pen, 
When,  lo!  A  tiny  gateway  he  espied, 
Up  through  the  boulders  to  a  higher  glen, 
The  which  was  bounded  in  on  either  side 
By  hills  so  proud  and  high  the  clouds  did  on  them  ride. 

He  had  no  choice  but  to  pursue  his  journey 
Along  the  path  the  winter  freshets  cleared. 
And  being  young,  and  having  much  to  learn,  he 
Took  little  thought  that  what  he  most  had  feared, 
Namely,  an  ambush,  by  the  high  rocks  reared, 
Was  set  for  him,  without  chance  of  escape, 
And,  trotting  up  the  canyon,  quickly  neared 
A  high  wall,  square  in  front  like  rocky  cape, 
Thrust  in  the  canyon's  jaws  while  lying  thus  agape. 


And  still  the  captive  thought  of  little  harm 
To  reach  him  here  in  this  still  solitude. 
The  shouts  below,  and  signals  of  alarm 
Gould  not  into  these  channels  well  intrude, 
Mid-earth,  itself,  cannot  be  more  imbued 
With  silence  than  these  sunken  canyons  deep: 
No  breeze  to  rustle  in  the  grasses,  strewed 
On  loamy  shelf,  or  cliffs  where  ivies  creep, 
And  sun  and  sky  shine  down  in  dozing,  dreamless  sleep. 

A  shallow  basin  hollowed  by  the  falling 
Of  countless  years  of  winters'  waterfalls, 
Still  brimmed  with  level  liquid,  as  recalling 
The  contents  of  the  sky's  high  crucibles. 
But,  whether  from  reflection  of  grim  walls, 
Or  whether  from  some  property  inherent, 
It  was  not  white,  like  the  wild  light  that  palls, 
But  green  as  onyx  stone,  and  yet,  transparent, 
Transparent,  yet  opaque,  a  paradox  apparent. 

Young  Maverick  stooped  to  drink.  His  timid  shadow 
Came  up  to  meet  him  from  the  under  earth. 
Up  through  the  depths  of  green,  translucent  meadow 
Like  genii,  sudden  given  transient  birth, 
Dark  shining,  luminous  in  mystic  mirth, 
In  spite  of  sphinx-like  mourning  of  the  pool, 
Deep  jewel  of  the  mighty  mountain's  worth, 
A  bauble  yet  untouched  by  sage  or  fool, 
Still  molten  in  its  cup,  which  ages  yet  must  cool. 

Could  that  fair  image  which  but  now  it  held 
Be  crystalized  within  its  bounding  measure, 
Then  would  the  minstreled  miniatures  of  eld 
Be  far  surpassed  by  this  bewildering  treasure : 
To  see  it  once  were  everlasting  pleasure; 
But  look !  It  shivers  back  from  mortal  gaze ! 
The  pool  holds  naught  but  the  high  zenith's  leisure! 
Young  Maverick  stands  in  listening,  rapt  amaze! 
Reflected  on  his  breast,  the  rippling  sunlight  plays. 


For  his  keen  ear  had  caught  the  distant  clicking 
Of  footsteps  on  the  loosely  rolling  stones. 
Faint  as  a  watch  in  muffled  pocket  ticking, 
But  clear  to  him  as  clamorous  brazen  tones 
That  shake  the  clattering  belfry's  jointed  bones. 
Nearer  they  came;  and  sounds  of  labored  breathing, 
With  long  drawn  sighs,  and  sometimes  feeble  groans, 
Spent  winds  of  passion  from  the  body  seething, 
Like  gasps  of  callow  youths  when  their  first  love  is  teething. 

In  short,  it  was  the  fat  Gregorio 
Who  labored  up  the  stony  narrow  dell. 
Fit  matter  for  an  oratorio, 
Hark  to  the  notes,  where  bursting  organs  swell! 
The  climax  came  when  poor  Gregorio  fell, 
I  grieve  to  say  he  barked  his  padded  shins, 
But  persevering,  as  he  hopes  to  tell 
The  story,  later  on,  of  how  he  wins; 
And  now,  indeed,  for  both,  excitement  soon  begins. 

For  when  the  colt  espied  the  bobbing  hat 
Above  the  boulders,  quick  he  gave  one  leap 
Against  the  hill-side,  little  doubting  that 
He'd  find  some  shelter  in  the  ridges  steep, 
As  did  he;  for  a  cavernous  crevice  deep 
Yawned  from  the  depths  of  earth  between  two  boulders, 
But  with  firm  floor,  that  very  well  could  keep 
Him  hidden  from  the  gaze  of  all  beholders, 
And  high  enough  in  roof  to  shelter  head  and  shoulders. 

Had  he  not  been  hard  pressed,  he  had  been  wary 
Of  choosing  such  a  refuge  as  this  cave. 
For,  from  his  childhood,  he  was  ever  chary 
Of  danks,  that  humans  treasure  like  the  grave; 
But  now  there  was  no  thoice  if  he  would  save 
Hia  <>wn  sweet  freedom,  growing  now  still  sweeter, 
So  much  does  Nature  for  excitement  crave 
That  sport  grows  rarer  as  the  course  is  fleeter; 
E'en  poetry  will  pall,  couched  in  a  facile  metre. 


Now  this  same  cavern  was  the  one,  identical, 
Selected  for  the  mountain  lion's  lair. 
And,  here  assembled,  with  the  cubs,  conventicle, 
The  dam  was  harbored  from  the  outer  air; 
They  do  not  like  the  open  when  they  pair 
And  go  in  for  a  family  of  cubs. 
No  doubt  the  measles  or  pneumonia  scare 
Have  kept  them  in  confinement,  like  blind  grubs: 
Or  eke  the  darkness  shows  less  strongly  need  of  tubs. 

But,  with  the  door- way  closed  by  the  hind  quarters 
Of  our  retreating  hero,  both  the  light 
And  air  were  shut  ofr  from  these  sons  and  daughters 
And  fond  mamma,  caught  dozing,  took  such  fright, 
She  knew  not  whether  it  were  day  or  night; 
The  smell  of  horse-flesh  made  things  more  confusing, 
While  crunch  of  stones  and  heavy  breathing  quite 
Upset  her  wits;  and  what  would  seem  amusing, 
Her  husband,  half  in  dreams,  she  still  went  on  abusing. 

For  she  had  been  sore  vexed  with  him  of  late 
For  not  providing  her  with  better  dinner. 
'Tis  so  with  many  a  husband  reprobate, 
In  this  the  lion's  not  the  only  sinner. 
He  took  great  pains,  when  she  was  young,  to  win  her, 
But  now,  he'd  lie  out  snoozing  in  the  sun 
While  she  was  daily  growing  gaunter,  thinner, 
And  he  too  fat  to  comfortably  run, 
Taking  his  ease,  in  fact,  and  having  all  the  fun. 

But  now,  on  hearing  all  this  noise  and  puffing, 
She  thought  her  lord  had  possibly  reformed. 
The  savory  horse-flesh  in  her  nostrils  snuffing 
Helped  the  illusion,  and  her  kind  heart  warmed; 
She  quite  forgot  how  she  had  raged  and  stormed, 
Put  on  a  smile  of  wifely,  sweet  devotion, 
Curled  in  her  claws  till  feet  were  quite  deformed, 
And  glided  forward  with  voluptuous  motion; 
Of  shrewish  snap  and  snarl  she'd  not  the  slightest  notion, 


And  then,  to  run  against  Young  Maverick's  heels! 
For  both,  it  was  an  awkward  kind  of  meeting: 
He,  speaking  first  with  vicious  kicks  and  squeals, 
She,  too  surprised  to  think  of  now  retreating, 
Being  still  warm  for  her  dear  husband's  greeting 
Until  her  head  encountering  his  hoof, 
She  saw  the  stars  of  Heaven  all  were  fleeting, 
And  gave  a  yell  to  raise  the  very  roof; 
Though  it  being  made  of  rock, I  fancy  was  yell  proof. 

Did  she  retreat?  Not  she ;  she  was  a  lion ; 

The  lion  is,  you  know,  the  king  of  beasts. 

And  think  you,  then,  the  queen  is  one  to  shy  on 

A  little  proposition  of  the  priests, 

Of  shooting  stars  and  stormy  lowering  Easts? 

She  did  not  cease  her  caterwauling  though , 

That's  feline  custom  both  for  frays,  and  feasts; 

But  like  a  bullet  shot  from  gun  did  go 

Out  of  that  loaded  cave  and  hit  Gregorio. 

Gregorio  was  thinking  of  his  love, 
His  last  one,  very  sweet,  her  name  Pepita; 
Was  hoping  he  would  not  so  fickle  prove 
As  with  Maria,  or  the  coy  Lucita, 
A  girl  is  all  the  world  until  you  meet  a 
Still  prettier  one;  there  are  so  very  many. 
And,  after  all,  the  stately  staid  Juanita 
Is  but  the  Spanish  of  our  English  Jenny, 
As  grateful  for  a  kiss,  as  eager  for  a  penny. 

So  occupied  was  he  with  his  fond  dreams 
He  had  not  looked  much  for  the  wanderer's  tracks. 
Though  mid  the  boulders  washed  by  mountain  streams 
Was  little  soil  or  sand  left  in  the  cracks 
To  take  the  print  of  hoofs.  But,  where  soil  lacks, 
There  still  are  many  signs  for  mountaineer: 
A  fresh  turned  pebble,  or  a  crushed  weed  smacks 
Of  passing  hoof,  and  tells  a  story  clear: 
Gregorio  hardly  looked  for  such  as  these,  I  fear. 


Love  is  a  jealous  mistress  though  she  need  not 
Be  much  concerned,  we  always  pay  our  dues. 
The  fruits  of  life  are  proffered,  and  we  heed  not, 
Intent  on  teasing  ryhmes  from  time  worn  muse; 
In  later  life  we  modify  our  views, 
Enjoy  a  pipe  and  glass  and  eat  our  rations, 
Regretful  of  times  that  we  did  not  choose 
To  early  enter  on  the  wealth  of  nations, 
Instead  of  courting  Love,  and  all  of  her  vexations. 

But  as  things  are,  they  are;  and  ever  will  be; 
Gregorio,  no  different  from  the  rest, 
Had  never  heard  of  Swinburne,  nor  read  Trilby, 
And  still  he  felt  the  same  throes  in  his  breast. 
His  shirt-front  heaved ;  he  did  not  wear  a  vest ; 
His  lips  pursed  up  with  memories  of  kissing; 
Forgotten  was  his  quarry  and  his  quest, 
No  thought  of  all  the  signals  he  was  missing, 
So  fervid  in  his  heart  his  young  love  now  was  hissing. 

He  marked  the  barricade,  and  saw  the  pool, 
And  feeling  somewhat  sad,  and  very  tired, 
He  stooped  his  fevered  lips  and  throat  to  cool, 
His  hand  extended  toward  the  wet  desired, 
When,  lo!  uprose  that  face  so  much  admired 
By  all  the  girls  whose  hearts  its  smile  had  broken, 
He  scarcely  wondered,  for  his  own  zeal  fired 
When  he  beheld  the  glowing,  greening  token, 
Of  colors  of  this  pool  I  have  already  spoken. 

And  thus  he  paused,  poised  like  the  young  Narcissus. 
Presenting,  I'm  afraid,  a  broader  figure; 
His  rear  view  is  the  one  that  must  not  miss  us, 
Where,  with  our  cavern's  gun,  we've  pulled  the  trigger; 
The  constant  wear  of  saddle  made  it  bigger 
Than  would  appear  in  that  lean,  love-lorn  youth, 
Uprising  in  well  rounded,  manly  vigor, 
A  perfect  target  for  our  bolt,  in  sooth, 
Erected  on  two  legs  as  in  a  shooting  booth. 


The  trigger  pressed,  the  bullet  sped  like  lightning, 
Accompanied  by  caterwauling  thunder, 
And  hit  the  bull's  eye  square,  just  where  the  tightening 
Of  gathered  duck  cleft  the  youth's  legs  asunder. 
That  he  went  down  is  very  little  wonder 
Considering  the  size  of  gun  and  bullet; 
Both  man  and  beast  went  down,  and  also  under, 
The  pool  receiving  them  like  greedy  pullet 
That  swallows  all  that  falls  into  her  eager  gullet. 

'Twas  but  to  cast  them  quickly  up  again, 
For  neither,  doubtless,  proved  quite  appetizing; 
Taste  unfamiliar  both  with  beasts  and  men 
Must  surely  find  this  mouthfull  quite  surprising; 
Gregorio'd  scarce  known  water  since  baptizing, 
And  mountain  lion  is  no  modern  Briton 
Who  scalds  and  soaks  himself  from  hour  of  rising 
Till  afternoon,  for  fear  he'll  leave  some  grit  on, 
Rubbing  himself  quite  raw  with  brush  or  rasping  mitten. 

'Tis  said,  whene'er  you  meet  an  Englishman, 
You'll  recognize  in  him  his  worthy  nation, 
I  speak  now  of  the  English  gentleman, 
They  differ  so  according  to  their  station, 
You'll  recognize  him  by  his  explanation 
That  either  he  is  just  about  to  take, 
Or  has  been  taking,  such  illumination, 
A  bath.   He  speaks  the  word  for  Virtue's  sake, 
With  pious,  .soulless  voice,  no  quaver,  and  no  shake. 

For,  being  very  shy,  and  very  Puritan, 
He's  half  afraid  the  word  suggests  a  picture. 
Retiring  modesty  cannot  endure  it  on 
Such  tenter-hooks  without  spasmodic  stricture. 
He  would  not  for  the  world  impose  as  fixture 
The  image  of  himself  without  his  clothes, 
Which  will  insist  in  the  confusing  mixture, 
Just  as  the  perfume  lingers  in  the  rose, 
Invention  of  the  artful  Devil,  I  suppose; 


And  so  he  speaks  the  word  with  studied  graveness, 
Full  conscious  that  he's  treading  dangerous  ground; 
Half  startled  at  his  native  island  b  raven  ess, 
Half  pleased  to  see  his  hearer  still  looks  round. 
He  does  not  realize  the  image  found 
Is  scarcely  tempting  to  voluptuarj^ 
That  parboiled  carcasses  like  fyis  abound, 
And  bog  soaked  leather  is  a  sight  more  cheery, 
Having  some  color  still  and  not  so  scraggly  hairy. 

Gregorio  rose  to  find  himself  in  bathing 
With  mountain  lion  for  a  playfellow. 
Her  drabby  tail  his  stifled  throat  was  swathing 
'Twas  that  which  made  him  gasp  and  splutter  so. 
He  seized  it  with  both  hands,  the  straw,  you  know, 
Extended  always  to  the  fabled  sailor, 
And  thus  the  giant  cat  did  safely  tow 
Her  prize  to  shore,  as  tugboat  tows  a  whaler, 
'Twixt  devil  and  deep  sea  he  grew  each  instant  paler. 

And  when  his  feet  were  on  the  solid  land, 
He  quickly  cast  off  hitch  of  saving  cable, 
And  bounding  over  boulders,  brush  and  sand 
Sped  down  the  canyon  quick  as  he  was  able; 
Not  stopping,  in  the  language  of  the  fable, 
To  pay  his  little  thanks,  and  make  his  speech; 
Those  stories  doubtless  antedate  old  Bable 
When  growl  and  howl  and  grunt  and  hiss  and  screech 
All  had  a  meaning  clearly  understood  03^  each. 

The  tale  he  told,  ah,  let  us  draw  a  curtain 
On  what  he  told  his  comrades  of  that  bout  I 
We,  who  know  all,  may  hold  it  very  certain 
He  wTas  the  hero,  which  way  it  came  out. 
Would  we  not  benefit  ourselves  with  doubt? 
Gregorio  clearly  never  knew  what  hit  him; 
And  'twould  not  do  to  have  Pepita  flout 
His  passion,  and  irrevocably  quit  him 
Simply  for  want  of  words  so  suitably  to  fit  him. 


And  yet  that  bath  had  someway  chilled  his  ardor; 
Cold  water  is  an  antidote  for  love; 
And  while  his  sympathy  for  board  and  larder 
Were  rather  sharpened  by  the  lion's  shove, 
From  that  time  on  he  handled  with  a  glove 
All  little  matters  so  called  of  the  heart; 
He  said,  of  course,  he  now  had  grown  above 
Such  boyish  folly,  taking  in  good  part 
The  gibes  and  jests  of  all,  munching  a  guava  tart. 

In  two  months  he  was  married  to  a  lady, 
A  good  cook,  too,  on  that  all  were  agreed. 
Though  as  for  years,  she  surely  knew  the  shady, 
Safe  side  of  thirty,  when  she  took,  to  feed, 
Our  youth  of  twenty  one,  scarce  that,  indeed, 
But  he  averred  his  youthful  days  were  over, 
And  this  proved  true;  let  all  the  lesson  heed: 
The  gayest  lover,  be  he  prince  or  drover, 
Will  settle  down,  in  time,  to  cabbage,  and  to  clover. 

Or  could  it  be  the  green  pool  was  enchanted, 
The  liquid  jewel  of  the  Aztec  glen  ; 
That  images  from  it  obliquely  slanted 
Would  glow  with  love  and  life,  be  born  again; 
But  once  within  its  wave,  the  fire  of  men 
Would  burn  to  ashes,  every  impulse  dead, 
As  flashes  of  a  diamond  vanish  when 
We  break  into  the  substance,  gray  like  lead, 
From  which  all  joy  and  life  of  love  and  youth  have  fled? 

The  mountain  lion,  also,  seemed  subdued, 
When,  drippingly,  she  came  out  on  the  shore; 
But  her  condition  might  be  well  construed 
As  coming  from  the  kick  dealt  just  before. 
At  all  events,  her  terrifying  roar 
Was  not  renewed.  She  crept  away,  quite  humble, 
Scarce  realizing  that,  within  her  door, 
She'd  left  a  morsel  for  her  cub-  to  mumble, 
And  snarl  and  quarrel  with,  causing  her  lord  to  grumble. 


Such  would  have  been,  at  least,  her  supposition 
Had  she  wits  left  with  which  she  could  suppose; 
At  present,  all  she  knew  of  her  condition 
Was  a  dazed  numbness  just  above  her  nose; 
The  water,  coursing  down  between  her  toes, 
Gave  her  a  vague  reminder  she'd  been  wet; 
Just  as  a  man,  intoxicated,  shows 
Some  feeble  signs  of  consciousness;  and  yet 
Remembers  not  the  cause,  nor  figure  of  his  bet. 

And  so  it  was  Young  Maverick  wTalked  away 
As  calm  and  as  secure  as  if  he'd  been 
In  his  own  pasture  at  the  break  of  day; 
And  if,  at  first,  the  caterwauling  din 
Had  seemed  to  set  his  senses  all  a-spin, 
It  was  so  sudden  ended,  you  might  say, 
The  shock  had  hardly  time  to  well  begin 
Before  there  was  no  cause  for  it  to  stay, 
A  passing  impulse  merely  for  his  coltish  play. 

He  sauntered  leisurely  adown  the  grass 
That  carpeted  a  winding  terrace  shelf, 
Screened  from  the  path  below  by  bulwark  mass 
Of  rock,  like  barbican  of  mountain  elf; 
Sometimes  a  cavern  back  for  treasured  pelf, 
Sometimes  a  winding  path  to  road  below, 
This  fitting  fortress  built  by  Nature's  self, 
Proved  a  retreat  to  safely  him  bestow, 
While  through  the  canyon's  depth  fled  scared  Gregorio. 

Full  leisurely  he  drank  the  sparkling  air 
And  waited  'neath  the  vaulted  arch  of  skies, 
Too  ignorant  to  fear  the  lion's  lair 
Content  to  watch  the  yellow  butterflies 
That  fluttered  up  around  him  in  surprise, 
Pure  flakes  of  gold  dropped  downward  from  the  sun, 
Lured  by  the  fire  that  flickered  in  his  eyes, 
Repelled  again  in  laughing  languorous  fun, 
Like  cowslip  petals  shed  where  the  wild  brook  doth  run, 


The  quiet  of  the  canyon  was  sustained; 

Gregorio's  passage  left  no  troubled  wake; 

The  silence  closed  about,  and  naught  remained 

Of  echoes,  which  like  gasping  bubbles  break 

In  the  wide  ether-swirl  of  troubled  lake; 

No  sound,  no  glint  of  light  in  wave-like  motion 

Came  filtering  down  from  where  the  banners  shake, 

High  on  the  surface  of  the  sun-lit  ocean, 
Flecks  of  white  cloud-foam  tossed  up  in  the  wind's  commo- 
tion. 

In  truth,  the  search  was  ended  for  that  morning. 

Don  Pancho  had  consulted  with  Joaquin 

And  learned  too  late  to  take  his  hinted   warning, 

And  wait  till  time  more  favorable  were  seen; 

An  interval  of  quiet  and  serene 

Would  fill  with  confidence  the  timid  colt; 

And,  sometime,  crowded  close  the  herd  between, 

They'd  have  him  fast  without  a  chance  to  bolt, 
Once  in  the  rope,  well,  let  him  meditate  revolt. 

How  often  it  has  happened  in  our  lives 
To  scorn,  in  heat  of  passion,  good  advice, 
And  afterward,  when  calmer  thought  arrives, 
We  take  the  thread  refused  and  try  to  splice 
It  on  to  our  own  line,  thus  failing  twice: 
The  first  time  proving  false  to  our  decision, 
The  second  time  by  being  over  nice, 
And  keeping  several  ends  within  our  vision 
We  fail  to  get  the  one  with  consequent  misprision. 

They  rode  back  slowly;  all  were  disappointed, 
Miguel  and  Carlos  feeling  it  the  least ; 
No  matter  how  the  times  may  be  disjointed, 
Two  friends  at  table  constitute  a  feast. 
True  comradeship  is  still  the  leavening  yeast 
That  lifts  the  cake  we  call  society; 
Some  think  it's  love  when  sanctioned  by  the  priest; 
And  novels,  all  with  due  propriety, 
Close  in  announcing  this  without  variety. 


The  trouble  with  our  usual  marriage  leaven, 
(Why  not  a  cook-book  and  a  recipe?) 
We  think,  too  soon,  to  taste  conjugal  heaven, 
And  open  up  the  oven  door  to  see 
How  perfectly  ingredients  agree, 
Whereat,  cold  Knowledge,  in  the  oven's  glow, 
Chills  all  the  germs  in  immaturity, 
We  wonder,  question,  meddle,  haggle  so, 
That  love  has  quite  escaped,  and  our  poor  cake  is  dough. 

No  matter:   every  phase  of  man's  affection 
Has  its  own  sweets,  and  constitutes  in  life 
The  part  that  needs  the  least  of  our  correction, 
Whether  it  be  with  comrade  or  with  wife, 
Whether  it  end  in  concord  or  in  strife, 
It  still  is  what   exalts  his  slavish  nature, 
Frees  him  from  self,  the  bonds  fall  with  the  knife, 
He  rises  up,  a  hero  in  his  stature, 
A  radiance  on  his  face  that  softens  every  feature. 

Even  Don  Pancho,  with  his  darkling  lad, 
Felt  the  warm  comfort  of  a  human  being 
Who  loved  him  quite  apart  from  good  or  bad, 
For  love's  sake  merely,  with  that  inward  seeing 
That  bad  is  good,  that  love  and  hate  agreeing 
Unite  to  make  the  human  ego  whole, 
And  from  the  chemic  heat  the  spirit  freeing, 
Shakes  out  its  plumes,  becomes  a  living  soul, 
To  sing  the  praise  of  love  as  long  as  worlds  shall  roll, 

'Sing  for  me  Marselino'  he  said  kindly, 
'Sing  me  the  song  of  Julia,  whose  dark  eyes 
Shone  with  such  brilliance,  all  who  saw  them  blindly 
Groped  in  the  darkness  of  the  noonday  skies.' 
Light  as  a  bird  the  boy's  thin  voice  did  rise, 
The  other  riders,  closing  in,  around, 
Joined  their  falsetto,  wailing  harmonies, 
As  on  they  moved,  o'er  the  uneven  ground, 
Shadow  of  cloud  and  passion  emanating  sound. 


Child  of  the  mountain  desert,  take  my  heart, 
And  hold  it,  as  you  once  did,  in  your  hands, 
While  from  my  ears  the  clamor  of  the  mart 
Dies  in  the  distance  of  the  driving  sands. 
Bind  me  again  with  subtle  singing  bands, 
And  let  me  feel  the  passion  and  the  calm, 
The  death  of  aged  Egypt's  storied  lands, 
The  life  of  lotus  and  uprising  palm, 
Blended  anew  with  sweets  of  Aztec's  fragrant  balm, 

Let  the  soft  desert  breath  across  me  flow, 
Tempering  your  subtle  face  with  love  so  tender, 
Responding  currents  in  my  being  flow 
In  me,  receiver,  and  from  you,  the  sender, 
So  like  to  like,  attracting,  will  engender 
In  my  worn  love  the  everlasting  sweep 
Of  cosmic  love,  that  still  to  life  doth    render 
Immortal  song  into  her  sacred  keep, 
And  waft  me,  even  now,  to  easeful  dreamful  sleep. 


CANTO     III 


The  evening  sky  was  flushing  cliff  and  boulder 
Before  Young  Maverick  left  his  high  retreat; 
While  with  the  warming  light,  the  air  grew  colder, 
As  though  the  sun,  withdrawing  now  his  heat, 
Cast  it    aside  in  subtler  essence  sweet; 
A  few  faint  shrills  of  insects  piping  thin, 
Gave  orchestration  to  his  sounding  feet, 
As  down  the  rocky  steep  with  clattering  din 
He  leaped  into  the  path  his  wanderings  to  begin. 

The  clouds  began  to  blaze  in  golden  glory 
As  down  the  winding  path  his  way  he  wended, 
The  bastioned  crags,  in  full  light  worn  and  hoary, 
Took  on  a  flush  as  though  with  roses  blended ; 
From  out  the  sky  celestial  dews  descended, 
Which  warm  dry  desert  winds  came  up  to  greet, 
Tired  of  playing  with  the  day  now  ended, 
Uprising  softly,  rosy  lips  to  meet, 
Lulled  with  light  lullabies  and  drowsy  memories  sweet. 

The  freshet's  pathway  brought  him  to  the  wicket 
Flanked  by  two  boulders  of  pink  porphyry, 
Which  gave  to  the  ravine  fringed  by  the  thicket 
Of  thorn  of  mesquite  and  wild  locust  tree; 
He  peered  into  the  shaded  paths  to  see 
Whether  there  lurked  of  men  in  ambush  there, 
But  all  was  quiet  and  from  danger  free, 
No  hint  of  hidden  bailiff  or  of  snare, 
Only  the  hush  of  shades  gathered  for  evening  prayer. 


Young  Maverick  gave  them  pause  until  well  over, 
And  stars  were  gathering  in  the  purpling  sky ; 
Then  silently,  with  tread  like  stealthy  lover, 
He  sought  the  covert's  border,  there  to  try 
Whether  alarm  might  greet  his  watchful  eye; 
But  all  seemed  open  on  the  grassy  slope, 
No  lingering  horsemen  left  behind,  to  spy 
On  his  return,  no  need  of  dread  to  cope 
With  sentries  watchful  beat  or  whistling  coiling  rope. 

Free  on  the  lap  of  hill-side  now  he  stands, 
A  gleam  of  light  upon  the  darkened  grass; 
Below  him  slope  the  richer  pasture  lands, 
Above,  and  backward,  yawns  the  stony  pass 
That  blends  into  the  sheltering  mountain's  mass. 
Within  that  gate  his  comrades  wait  him  still, 
Their  play  soon  ended,  lacking  him,  alas! 
There  is  no  other  one  his  place  to  fill, 
No  one  to  lead  them  now  with  uncurbed,  fearless  will. 

He  feels  their  yearning  for  him,  and,  still  stronger 
He  feels  the  call  of  his  dear  upland  heath ; 
Though  shelter  it  can  furnish  him  no  longer 
From  the  dark  men  who  hold  the  lands  beneath. 
A  sword  finds  comfort  in  its  harboring  sheath. 
But  swords  must  flash  into  the  battle's  din, 
There  is  no  safety  scabbards  can  bequeath, 
Nor  were  it  worthy  to  sit  snugly  in 
A  place  of  refuge,  safe,  when  battles  wild  begin. 

Still,  on  him  sits  his  youlh;  and  all  his  longing 
Is  for  his  playmates,  and  the  motherhood 
Of  circling  hills,  from  birth  to  him  belonging, 
His  only  ken  of  gentleness  and  good; 
By  very  few  is  this  dear  call  withstood, 
And  they  are  more  like  disembodied  spirits 
That  wander  in  a  wild  and  trackless  wood, 
A  wilderness  a  hermit  disinherits, 
Because  it  lnck^  the  life  that  even  recluse  merits. 


As  some  worn  heretic  whose  bitter  years 
Have  left  him  without  helpful  creed  or  friend, 
Still  haunted  by  the  future's  growing  fears, 
Aghast  in  contemplation  of  the  end, 
To  what  black  chasms  may  his  soul  descend, 
Hears  the  sweet  church  bells  of  his  native  lea; 
And  sees  the  happy  flocks  that  thither  wend, 
So  stands  through  life  that  soul  that  dares  be  free, 
And  looks  for  happiness  to  heartless  liberty. 

Long  stood  our  hero  in  the  star  flaked  darkness, 
Bound  by  the  longing  for  his  fellow  kind; 
The  sunken  moon  was  silvering  the  starkness 
Of  snowy  mountain  peaks  that  rose  behind 
The  valley  where  his  heart  strings  were  entwined ; 
Those  snowy  peaks,  alas,  how  cold  their  gleams! 
What  comfort  that  their  frigid  glaciers  find 
The  waters  fair  that  sweeten  all  our  streams, 
And  wealth  of  grasses  green  out  of  their  chastened  dreams? 

Not  till  the  sunken  weazened  moon  had  risen 
From  out  the  sullen  darkness  of  the  East. 
Cleaving  the  cloud-bars  of  her  iron  prison 
With  sickening  smile  of  death's  head  at  the  feast, 
Not  till  the  mesas  caught  the  bloom  at  least, 
Though  still  the  canyons  lurked  in  heavy  black, 
While  iron  clouds  were  with  faint  silver  fleeced 
Did  sad  Young  Maverick  turn  reluctant  back 
Upon  his  childhood's  home,  taking  the  downward  track. 

He  journeyed  toward  the  moon  whose  white  beams  glancing 
From  off  his  pale  gold  gleaming  back  and  sides 
Were  like  the  elf  lights  in  his  large  eyes  dancing. 
What  unseen  spirit  is  it  that  bestrides 
That  gleaming  back  and  towards  his  fancy  rides? 
We  know  not;  but  some  mystic  force  directs  him, 
Perhaps  the  moon-beams  are  his  only  guides; 
No  matter:  'tis  the  Sun  that  still  protects  him, 
Though  hidden  underneath,  his  shield  on  high  reflects  him. 


Young  Maverick  quickens  now  his  moody  saunter, 
And  takes  the  coining  plains  with  gathering  speed 
Until  his  gait  acquires  a  gentle  canter, 
Though  fickle  hollows  still  must  give  him  heed; 
He  has  not  day-light  yet  his  chart  to  read, 
There  still  is  caution  in  his  mode  of  travel, 
Though  beaten  path  he  does  not  seek  or  need ; 
For  soon  the  broken  ridges  all  unravel, 
And  on  in  full  career  he  skims  the  fleeting  gravel. 

The  plains  are  flowing  from  him  like  a  river: 
Back,  back  they  slide  beneath  his  oaring  feet; 
The  long  dusk  flags  of  dawn  about  him  shiver. 
Winds  of  the  coming  light  his  speed  to  greet. 
Soon  will  the  banners  of  Apollo  meet 
The  messenger  that  gilds  the  desert  waves, 
Soon  will  the  rose-leaves  of  the  morning  sweet 
Be  strewn  on  all  the  fleeting  water  laves, 
And  shadows  gasp  their  breath  in  rosy  flower-like  graves. 

If  night  with  all  her  galaxy  of  splendor 
Is  wonderful,  what  word  describes  the  dawn, 
When  the  first  sallow  light  becomes  more  tender, 
And  the  wild  sickening  fear  of  death  is  gone? 
Into  the  West  the  shroud  of  night  withdrawn 
Flutters  like  baleful  flag,  then  disappears; 
And  chasms  of  the  sleeping  canyons  yawn, 
And  open  up  their  deeps  of  dizzying  fears, 
As  they  have  done  the  same  thro  countless  depths  of  years. 

When  the  white-tinging  zone  across  the  vault 
Of  the  wide  Eastern  sky  begins  to  glow, 
And  the  stars  tremble  with  the  light's  assault, 
And  faint  from  sight  like  melting  flakes  of  snow, 
When  the  bold  current  of  the  onward  flow 
Bursts  all  the  barriers  of  night  asunder 
That  crashing  down  chaotic  tangents  go 
Reverberating  through  the  skies  like  thunder, 
Then  must  we  sit  amazed  in  awesome  speechless  wonder. 


Not  so  our  arrow  from  the  pale  Moon 's  quiver 
Though  she  forgotten  is  amid  the  skies, 
And  like  poor  palpitating  moth  doth  shiver 
Against  the  light  that  blazes  in  her  eyes, 
And  piteously  in  ecstasy  she  dies, 
Not  so  the  fleeting  arrow  shares  her  fate, 
As  straight  against  the  shield  of  day  he  flies, 
Like  lonely  lover  rushing  to  his  mate, 
Not  casting  look  behind  nor  pausing  at  the  gate. 

Young  Maverick  greets  the  swinging  orb  of  day, 
When  first  he  clears  the  dull  horizon's  brim, 
With  shrilling  gladness  of  a  single  neigh, 
And  speeds  ahead  as  if  straight  under  him, 
Perhaps  his  guiding  spirit  thinks  the  rim 
Is  but  the  hoop  of  fire  of  circus  clowns, 
And  quick  makes  ready  for  the  leap,  to  skim 
The  crackling  circle  with  her  spangled  gowns, 
And  turn  to  wild  applause  the  thousand  anxious  frowns. 

No  matter:  I,  at  least,  am  out  of  breath, 
Not  quite  accustomed  to  this  rapid  motion, 
And  mindful  what  the  ancient  proverb  saith, 
To  stop  and  take  a  drink,  I  have  a  notion, 
Don't  shudder  I  assure  you  that  the  lotion 
Is  purest  water  from  a  cup  of  tin ; 
And  that  reminds  me  that  this  wild  commotion, 
Has  made  our  hero  thirsty,  too,  as  sin, 
So  with  your  leave  well  stop  and  put  a  river  in. 

A  river  in  the  desert  is  a  dimple 
That  quivers  in  a  pale  nun's  sallow  cheek; 
Bound  round  with  lifeless  cloth  and  stiff  starched  wimple; 
Not  daring  to  a  game  of  hide-and-seek, 
With  shifting  smiles  on  that  poor  face  so  meek, 
But  still  remains  half  human  and  half  holy, 
I  would  not  think  in  sacrilege  to  speak, 
And  give  but  passing  glance  to  mountain  moly 
Touched  with  the  rose  and  sadness  of  sweet  melancholy. 


A  fringe  of  willows  and  green  bushes  bordered 
This  swiftly  gliding  mirror  of  the  sky, 
Tangled  with  grasses  like  blown  hair  disordered 
By  every  wanton  wind  that  passes  by; 
High  on  the  banks  the  stones  lay  parched  and  dry, 
But  where  thf>  swirling,  eddying  waters  flowed 
The  grateful  soil  gave  many  a  happy  sigh, 
And  green  of  gratitude  most  courteous  showed, 
Giving  both  birds  and  fish  dim  places  of  abode, 

The  sheeted  current  ever  hurried  onward 
Trailing  its  molten  ribbon  through  the  drear 
Dead  wastes  of  rock  and  sand  let  gently  downward 
From  where  the  mountains  shimmered  in  the  clear 
Dry  heat  from  off  the  desert  scorched  and  sere. 
It  seemed  as  if  the  waters,  conscience  stricken 
For  having  fled  their  forests,  sick  with  fear 
Felt  their  thin  floods  to  curdle  and  to  thicken, 
And  strove  as  in  a  dream  their  lagging  gait  to  quicken. 

Below  would  come  a  plain  where  they  could  linger 
And  idle  with  the  ways  and  toys  of  men, 
Turning  the  logy  mill  with  languid  finger 
Refreshing  through  canals  the  garden  pen, 
Or  filling  rock-bound  basins  now  and  then, 
Where  dark-haired  singing  women  beat  their  boards 
Cleansing  the  snowy  linen,  laughing  when 
They  catch  the  rippling  liquid  in  their  gourds, 
And  watch  it  shift  and  gleam  like  coins  the  miser  hoards. 

Gay-kerchiefed,  sad-eyed  women  of  the  South, 
What  is  the  mystery  the  magic  spell 
That  keeps  your  eyes  in  sadness,  while  the  mouth 
Gleams  with  white  laughter  that  the  gay  lips  tell? 
Is  it  the  haunting  of  the  mission  bell, 
The  memory  of  the  convent  still  that  rules? 
Three  generations  back  those  stem  walls  fell. 
The  priests  are  keeping  now  but  paltry  schools, 
And  husbands  lightly  smile  and  call  you  dupes  and  fools. 


Or  is  it,  not  from  teaching,  but  from  life 
You  learn  the  tragedy  that  haunts  your  eyes? 
Is  it  the  lot  of  mother  and  of  wife 
To  draw  the  seven  sorrows  from  the  skies 
And  deify  them,  then,  in  Paradise, 
While  still  their  laughter  rules  the  world  below? 
And  men  look  on  in  wonder  and  surprise, 
Nor  cease  to  marvel  at  the  shallow  flow 
Of  thoughtless,  cruel  words  that  lightly  come  and  go. 

Man's  sadness  is  than  woman's  wider,  deeper, 
But  by  his  actions,  not  his  eye3  revealed; 
It  has  within  an  envious,  watchful  keeper. 
From  every  feature  is  the  gem  concealed; 
The  deed  alone  a  generous  arm  can  wield, 
When,  swift  in  flash  of  light  or  frenzied  battle, 
Benignant  pity  knows  his  sheltering  shield, 
No  matter  how  the  curses  rain  and  rattle, 
And  men  go  down  like  grain  trampled  by  herded  cattle. 

But  women  show  their  sadness,  and  men  love  them 
Because  they  show  it:  which  they  dare  not  do. 
And,  if  through  self- reserve,  they  stand  above  them, 
'Tis  but  to  pay  their  highest  tribute  to 
The  semblance  of  that  passion  deep  and  true 
They  hide  within  themselves,  like  boys,  ashamed 
E'en  to  confess  it  as  dear  friendship's  due, 
Lest  'twill  escape  on  being  boldly  named, 
And  they,  for  hypocrites,  be  all  too  lightly  blamed. 

But  back  again  to  where  Young  Maverick  touches 
The  sliding  surface  with  his  timid  lips; 
His  fore  legs  rigid  as  two  bracing  crutches 
While  up  his  supple  throat  refreshment  slips  ; 
A  swaying  willow  in  the  water  dips, 
On  which  a  slender  water  snake,  suspended, 
Darts  feathery  tongue  in  silent  taunting  quips, 
Content  to  wait  until  the  action's  ended, 
Full  wise  in  that  old  saw,  'Least  said  is  soonest  mended.' 


And  when  the  colt,  with  backward  rearing  leap, 
Stands  firm  established  on  the  level  bank, 
The  snake  uncoils,  and  glides  into  the  deep 
Of  swirling  eddy,  where  the  lips  late  drank, 
Earth's  emblem  of  the  heavenly  lightning's  rank, 
He  writhes  into  the  yielding  water's  flood 
With  many  a  graceful  turn  and  willful  prank, 
Kissing  the  bubbles  into  fruitful  bud, 
That  rise  like  flowers  of  air  out  of  the  stagnant  mud. 

For  lightning,  so  the  Indians  tell  the  story, 
Is  the  life-giver,  fructifying  all 
It  touches,  in  its  downward  diving  glory, 
Even  the  dead  rock  answers  its  clear  call, 
And  softens  into  soil,  live,  magical; 
But  if  the  lightning  strikes  a  living  thing, 
The  joy  is  so  intense,  it  bursts  its  thrall, 
And  mounting  upward  on  a  heavenly  wing, 
Loud  through  the  firmament  doth  wildly  sweetly  sing. 

Love  is  the  lightning  in  our  modern  faith  ; 
It  makes  the  senseless  clod  to  thrill  with  pleasure, 
Creates  in  it  a  sensing  yearning  wraith, 
That  knows  no  limit  which  its  soul  can  measure; 
From  out  its  heart  it  takes  the  precious  treasure, 
And  gives  it  freely  to  the  world  around ; 
But  should,  once  more,  Love  strike  from  out  the  azure 
The  poor  wraith  falls  a-writhing  on  the  ground, 
Dead,  with  her  joy,  perhaps;  she  shows  no  sign  of  wound. 

Can  it  be,  likewise,  that  two  loves,  united, 
Fly  to  the  heavens  in  wild  carolling? 
That  what  we  see  is  but  the  body,  blighted, 
And  writhing  from  the  serpent's  deadly  sting? 
A  blighted  love  were  sure  a  doubtful  tiling, 
Although  we  see  their  corpses  thick  around  us. 
Why  not  believe,  here,  too,  the  soul  takes  wing, 
Nor  let  the  shattered  ruins  quite  confound  us, 
But  hearken  to  the  spheres  that  sing  in  swinging  round  us? 


Young  Maverick  knew  not  love  as  humans  know  it, 
At  least  not  yet,  and  if  he  ever  could 
He'd  have  the  common  sense  to  frankly  show  it, 
And  get  it  purged  from  out  his  healthful  blood 
By  nature's  process,  as  all  creatures  should, 
Except  ourselves,  who,  blessed  with  a  religion, 
Or  tribal  custom,  not  to  be  withstood, 
Must  bill  and  coo  for  years  like  prisoned  pigeon , 
Hugging  our  sterile  fetich,  praying  to  pigwidgeon. 

He  cantered  miles  along  the  green  fringed  river, 
Till  alien  mountains,  nearing,  did  begin 
To  close  around  like  dark  confining  quiver 
Sheathing  the  clashing  arrowy  waters  in  ; 
A  rugged  path  crept  close  along  the  din 
Of  splashing  echoes  from  the  dripping  rocks, 
For  narrowing  whirlpools,  leaping  high  would  spin 
Their  flashing  bubbles  out  to  burst  in  shocks, 
And  gather  in  swift  rills  like  Fury's  storm  tossed  locks. 

But  still  the  path  crept  on,  until  the  chasm 
Grew  wider  and  less  perilous  and  steep, 
Earth  had  recovered  from  its  racking  spasm 
Though  still  the  scar  showed  lurid,  dark  and  deep; 
But  softly  soon  the  hills  lay  back  to  sleep, 
And  wide  the  valley  stretched  in  sunlit  calms, 
A  second  desert  in  the  aged  keep 
Of  mystic  gold  of  sun's  preserving  balms, 
And  planted  wide  like  flowers  with  stately  rising  palms. 

The  soil  was  here  more  golden  than  before, 
And  giant  cacti  held  their  logy  stems 
Like  heavy  candelabra,  while  a  score 
Of  flame-pure  flowers,  arrayed  like  diadems, 
Decked  out  their  thorn  ridged  green  with  sparkling  gems 
Of  topaz  and  of  ruby,  while  the  bees, 
Droning  monotonous,  sad  requiems, 
Beaded  the  mantle  of  the  even  breeze, 
That  bore  a  fragrance  far  from  wild  acacia  trees. 


And  deer-tongued  lilies  loomed  their  green  white  spikes 
From  out  their  clumps  of  bristling  bayonets, 
Pale  virgins  e'en  the  listless  fly  dislikes, 
Rank  with  a  sterile  odor,  which  offsets 
The  clustered  beauty  of  their  pure  rosettes, 
Though  round  each  one  there  hovers  the  immortal 
White  emblem  of  the  butterfly,  that  gets 
Not  ever  quite  within  the  frigid  portal, 
But  round  the  heatless  flame  doth  lightly,  gaily  hurtle; 

And  weird  euphorbias  reared  their  antlered  stalks, 
Set  thick  with  spines  and  tiny  emerald  leaves, 
A  thorny  menace  to  the  man  who  walks 
Regardless  of  their  unbound,  scraggly  sheaves; 
On  them  his  blood  and  bits  of  garments  leaves 
The  one  who,  hastening  o'er  the  parching  sand, 
Still  for  the  green  of  past  oasis  grieves, 
Still  travelling  with  his  thoughts  amid  that  band 
Of  friends  of  childhood's  days,  a  long  forsaken  land. 

For  do  we  not,  all  of  us,  in  life's  journey, 
Come  to  the  thorny  deserts  we  must  cross? 
The  youth's  romance  of  battle-field  and  tourney 
Will  hardly  hold  through  life's  advancing  loss. 
There  is  so  little  gold,  so  much  of  dross, 
So  much  of  waiting,  and  so  little  action, 
And  hope  has  long  since  failed  the  facts  to  gloss, 
And  hunger  so  exceeds  its  satisfaction, 
And  all  the  universe  has  suffered  such  contraction, 

We  stand  dazed,  in  a  desert,  staring  blindly, 
Oblivious  of  its  treaures  all  around, 
Not  seeing  how  harsh  Nature  still  proves  kindly, 
And  tempers  to  endure  the  sultry  ground; 
We  think  but  of  our  own  proud,  sullen  wound, 
And  think  to  dash  across  the  bitter  plain; 
Alas,  the  end  is  not  so  quickly  found! 
Full  fortunate  are  we  if,  soon  again, 
We  learn  to  see  that  good  grows  out  of  biting  pain. 


Some  say  the  fay  Morgana  haunts  the  barrens, 
But  I  have  found  her  more  in  garden  flowers ; 
Grim  skeletons  and  dessicating  carrions 
Can  hardly  tempt  that  houri  of  the  hours ; 
She  rather  lingers  in  the  dewy  bowers 
Of  dreamful  youth,  and  dandles  there  her  prize; 
The  desert  knows  more  grim  and  sturdy  powers, 
'Tis  there  the  scales  drop  off  from  our  dim  eyes 
And  we  see  Truth's  stark  form  and  seeing  grow  more  wise. 

Better  like  our  Young  Maverick  to  be  born 
From  out  the  desert  sands,  of  its  pale  gold, 
Than  to  be  nurtured  in  a  land  of  corn 
And  blessings  that  its  wealth  makes  manifold, 
Corrupting  self  with  laws  of  have  and  hold; 
Better  the  jewels  of  the  open  sky 
Than  all  that  mines  of  earth  have  ever  told, 
Its  hardships  and  its  rigors  once  passed  by, 
The  soul  looks  forth  content,  with  calm  unselfish  eye. 

The  languorous  afternoon  was  softly  drowsing 
When  out  from  the  horizon  grew  a  vision, 
Which  gold  of  burnished  heat  had  there  been  housing, 
As  angels  dwell  behind  the  gates  Elysian, 
The  features  took  swift  outline  and  precision, 
Like  fabled  centaur,  leaping,  on  it  came, 
As  if  great  Love,  desiring  the  collision, 
Had  brought  two  worshippers  to  call  her  name, 
And  kindle  there  between  her  pale  undying  flame. 

It  was  a  radiant  boy  of  some  twelve  summers, 
Summers  that  winter  had  not  touched  with  care, 
And  bearing  him,  for  there  were  two  new  comers, 
A  dark  brown  pony,  a  young  Mexic  mare, 
Of  bit  and  bridle,  saddle,  blanket,  bare 
As  was  the  boy  of  garments,  that  bestrode  her, 
So  lightly  sat  he  on  her  withers  there, 
You  would  not  think  on  looking  that  he  rode  her, 
There  was  no  sign  of  weight  or  heaviness  to  load  her. 


To  guide  her  he  would  merely  wave  his  hand, 
Or  press  his  heel  against  her  yielding  flank, 
And  swift  responding  to  the  faint  command, 
She  started,  stopped,  or  into  canter  sank, 
So  willingly  she  recognized  her  rank, 
It  was  like  body  to  the  ruling  brain, 
Or  untouched  tablet  lying  waiting,  blank, 
To  take  on  words  of  pleasure,  hope,  or  pain, 
Whate'er  the  writer  thinks,  and  wishes  to  remain. 

And  coming  as  they  did  quite  naked  to  him, 
Young  Maverick  felt  no  shock  or  touch  of  fear; 
Here  were  no  captor's  wiles  to  slyly  woo  him 
With  snare  but  half  concealed  and  loathsome  gear 
Of  cloth  and  hemp  and  leather,  crisp  and  sere; 
This  was  a  living  being,  clean  confessed : 
And  in  its  countenance  shone  freedom  clear, 
And  love  and  motion,  that  may  half  be  guessed 
But  are  not  shown  entire  by  people  who  go  dressed. 

The  brown  mare  whinnied  out  a  friendly  greeting, 
Young  Maverick  answered  with  a  joyful  call, 
The  boy,  as  well,  enraptured  with  the  meeting, 
Held  up  his  hand  as  sign  of  peace  for  all; 
Young  shepherd  David,  standing  before  Saul, 
Could  not  have  been  more  fair  to  look  upon 
Than  this  thin  stripling  by  his  horse  made  tall, 
An  antique  statue  which  with  genius  shone 
Like  those  engraved  upon  the  far  famed  Parthenon. 

His  polished  body  was  a  golden  bronze, 
A  lighter  color  than  the  dark  brown  mare; 
The  oolor  you  will  see  beneath  the  fronds 
Of  seeding  fern,  you'll  find  it  anywhere; 
The  radiance  of  his  crisping  copprous  hair 
Held  contrast  with  the  darker  mane  and  tail 
That  roistered  from  his  pony  in  the  air 
Creating  for  itself  a  gallant  gale, 
Like  ship  in  changeful  breeze  that  flaps  a  wilful  sail, 


With  shining  eyes  and  proud  necks  gently  rounded, 
The  horses  met  in  stately  grave  advance; 
To  see  them  one  would  think  the  music  sounded, 
And  call  was  issued  for  the  coming  dance; 
In  formal  salutation  with  mild  glance 
They  do  not  stop  till  they  have  light  touched  noses, 
Curvetting  then,  with  eyes  still  turned  askance, 
They  snort  and  nicker  which  we  must  suppose  is 
Horse-language  compliments  and  all  those  pretty  proses. 

In  Mexico  men  lightly  touch  the  shoulder 
With  right  hand,  while  the  left,  around  the  waist, 
Gives  firmer  pressure;  then,  as  growing  holder, 
Their  right  hands  clasp,  each  in  the  other  placed; 
Their  eye3  are  lifted  and  the  stranger  faced. 
It  seems  to  me  a  pretty  salutation 
When  with  their  leisure  and  politeness  graced; 
I  ne'er  have  seen  in  any  other  nation 
A  greeting  more  in  form  for  every  rank  and  station. 

The  elders  or  superiors  in  rank 
Initiate  the  manner  of  the  greeting. 
'Twixt  friends  the  clasp  is  warm,  the  look  is  frank, 
I'd  walk  a  mile  to  see  such  manly  meeting. 
Caresses  no  less  real  because  they're  fleeting, 
A  laugh  that  hints  a  tear,  but  does  not  show  it, 
A  careless  backward  step,  as  if,  retreating, 
Their  love  had  been  expressed,  let  who  would  know  it 
Or  guess  at  tenderness  hidden  away  below  it. 

The  love  that  holds  between  two  stalwart  friends, 
Love  free  from  sex  or  sex's  fierce  desire, 
That  gathers  all  life's  broken  ravelled  ends 
And  weaves  them  in  a  bond  no  strain  can  tire, 
Anneals  them  in  a  chemic  mystic  fire, 
That  love  is  such  a  beauteous  breathless  spirit, 
The  poet  catches  swift  his  eager  lyre 
And  tries  a  chant  of  such  celestial  merit 
The  strings  snap  wild  in  twain,  too  mortal  they  to  bear  it. 


A  humbler  task  is  ours,  as  soft  the  shadows 
Purple  and  deepen  the  gold  desert's  glow; 
The  sun  retiring  from  his  labored  meadows 
Into  a  farther  field  doth  softly  go ; 
Reluctantly,  with  lingering  glances  slow, 
He  bows  his  head  beneath  horizon's  rim, 
As  if  half  doubting  that  the  morning  so 
Would  meet  his  greeting  and  smile  back  on  him, 
Untouched  by  dews  of  night  and  mourning  darkness  dim, 

Perhaps  another  reason  for  his  lingering 
Was  he  was  loth  to  part  from  these  three  creatures 
That  his  reluctant  rosy  rays  were  fingering, 
Kissing  the  laughter  on  their  limbs  and  features; 
For  youthful  play,  the  surest  of  all  teachers, 
Had  made  young  Maverick  with  the  two  acquainted, 
And  what  he  had  refused  to  all  beseechers 
He  gave  the  boy  with  simple  trust,  untainted 
By  any  vague  suspicions  either  real  or  feinted. 

They  played  at  running  on  the  open  level, 
And  round  and  round  they  went  in  fiery  race; 
The  boy's  brown  body,  bent  in  steadying  bevel, 
Did  not  once  shift  from  out  the  balanced  place, 
Still  leaning  inward  in  the  narrowing  space, 
His  arms  outstretched  to  urge  the  pleasure  faster, 
The  wild  joy  leaping  in  his  beauteous  face, 
Young  Mercury  could  hardly  be  his  master, 
Unconscious  there  could  hap  of  danger  or  disaster. 

When  the  brown  pony  breathless  stopped  to  rest, 
The  boy  leaped  off  with  merry  laughing  bound, 
And  on  Young  Maverick's  tingling  withers  pressed 
His  pretty  face  and  put  his  arms  around 
The  quivering  neck,  but  stayed  upon  the  ground; 
He  did  not  spring  into  that  virgin  saddle; 
Not  yet,  though  love  and  longing  were  profound; 
His  eager  legs  could  scarce  forbear  the  straddle, 
But  instinct  still  refrained  his  boyish  brain  to  addle. 


They  started  then  a  game  of  hide-and-seek; 
The  boy  would  slip  away  behind  some  shelter 
With  many  a  cautious  run  and  wary  sneak, 
Or  like  a  lizard  in  the  sand  would  welter, 
You'd  think  a  salamander  there  would  swelter, 
Not  he,  a  child  born  of  the  wind  and  sun; 
The  pony,  missing  him,  ran  helter-skelter, 
Keen  in  the  search  and  relishing  the  fun, 
Searching  the  shaded  haunts  nor  missing  any  one. 

And  when,  at  length,  with  scenting  snort  and  snuffle, 
He  spied  the  boy  half  buried  in  the  sand, 
Like  rooting  swine  intent  on  luscious  truffle, 
His  lips  found  out  a  brown  spasmodic  hand. 
The  bursting  boy  could  not  such  joy  withstand, 
But  with  wild  shout  leaped  on  the  waiting  shoulders, 
Gave  the  slight  signal  of  his  will's  command, 
Away  they  sped  o'er  bushes  and  o'er  boulders, 
A  joy  as  well  to  those  who  chanced  to  be  beholders. 

Young  Maverick  in  this  game  initiated, 
Chanced  once  to  find  the  hiding  culprit  first; 
And  with  glad  pleasure  and  sweet  joy  elated, 
Stood  with  wild  heart  that  seemed  about  to  burst, 
And  boy,  quite  frenzied  now,  feared  not  the  worst, 
But  leaped  upon  the  lithe  and  panting  body; 
He'd  done  it  though  he  knew  it  were  accursed, 
The  sport  had  made  him  such  a  dizened  noddy, 
Intoxicated  so  with  this  unheard-of  toddy. 

And  when  young  Maverick  felt  the  weight  caressing 
His  supple  back,  his  joy  shot  up  like  fire; 
And  when  the  slender  legs  his  sides  were  pressing, 
He,  looking  backward,  saw  the  arms  wreathe  higher, 
Winged  was  he  now  with  his  own  heart's  desire; 
Like  the  pent  geyser  from  the  earth's  deep  dungeon 
That  to  the  heaven's  zenith  doth  aspire, 
The  flying  clouds  to  throttle  and  to  plunge  on, 
Gushed  from  volcanic  pulse  of  subterranean  engine. 


So  rose  he  like  a  fountain  winged  with  passion, 
Poised  on  his  backward  hoofs,  erect  and  free; 
The  boy,  familiar  with  this  equine  fashion, 
Clung  firm  with  clasping  thigh  and  steady  knee, 
His  arms  were  still  out  flying  buoyantly, 
Though  ready  if  he  felt  his  thighs  should  slip 
To  circle  vine-like  round  that  golden  tree, 
The  moss  of  which  brushed  soft  against  his  lip 
As  if  to  freshen  him  with  its  elixir  sip. 

The  arm  was  ready,  but  the  clutch  not  needed, 
For  down  again  the  trembling  fountain  came; 
Changed  to  a  river  now  that  swiftly  speeded 
Adown  the  desert  like  the  lightning's  flame; 
The  boy  was  laughing  at  the  merry  game; 
The  poor  brown  pony,  now  left  far  behind, 
Called  to  them  wistfully  with  tender  name, 
Well  thinking  they  were  thoughtless  and  unkind 
To  leave  her  stranded  so,  with  heavy  burdened  mind. 

But  they  returned  before  she  thought  to  follow, 
The  boy  down  bending  now  like  speeding  arrow, 
The  pony  wondering  at  this  gold  white  swallow 
That  left  her  twittering  like  a  ruffled  sparrow; 
Round,  and  again,  the  circle  growing  narrow, 
Till  they  made  pause  before  her  wondering  gaze, 
Astonished,  scarcely  knowing  joy  from  sorrow, 
So  wound  and  twisted  was  she  in  this  maze, 
She  thought  she  smelled  the  smoke  and  saw  the  bushes  blaze. 

But  when  the  boy,  with  pity  for  her  yearning, 
Slipped  on  her  back  from  off  Young  Maverick's  neck, 
She  felt  her  simple  joy  again  returning, 
Her  grief  already  dwindled  to  a  speck; 
And  when  she  saw  the  knowing  nod  and  beck 
Of  her  companion  play-mate,  swift  she  wheeled, 
And  all  together  o'er  the  desert's  deck 
They  played  a  merry  tune,  so  lightly  heeled, 
\\'  there  was  jealousy   it  was  full  well  concealed. 


This  time  they  made  straight  road  for  the  acacias 
That  fringed  the  border  of  a  small  canal. 
In  Mexico,  they  call  these  things  acequias, 
A  pretty  word,  and  quaintly  pastoral; 
We  have  no  word  that's  quite  reciprocal; 
We  call  them  simply  irrigating  ditches  ; 
Lacking,  you  see,  all  sound  poetical, 
And  though  the  rhymes  are  plentiful  as  stitches, 
They  almost  all  are  vulgar,  except  niches. 

Now  an  acequia  leading  from  a  river 
Is  even  prettier  than  its  aqueous  parent. 
Just  as  a  gift  is  prettier  than  a  giver, 
A  daughter  than  her  mother,  though,  inherent, - 
We'll  not  delay,-  the  truth  is  so  apparent, 
But  follow  on  with  our  landscape  description, 
And  not,  like  reckless  fool-hardy  knight  errant, 
Fall  into  wayside  quarrel  or  conniption. 
Tracing  back  origins  to  source  at  least  Egyptian. 

How  often  we  have  watched  a  mill-race  running 
Along  the  bank  or  through  a  sterile  meadow, 
Where  wet-stemmed  grasses  green  were  idly  sunning 
Their  leaves  that  kept  the  blue-eyed  stars  in  shadow, 
How  we  have  liked  their  buoyant  fresh  bravado, 
Pushing  their  standards  up  to  show  their  rank, 
Quite  careless  that  they  crowd  out  maid  and  widow 
That  grow  outside  their  rich,  well  watered  bank, 
Replete  with  life  and  strength  that  they  so  lately  drank. 

While,  between  banks,  the  placid  slipping  waters 
Glide  on  to  turn  the  mill-wheel,  calmly  smiling, 
Full  heedless  that  some  favored  sons  and  daughters 
Through  hidden  roots  their  treasures  are  beguiling, 
Content  are  they,  this  peaceful  respite  whiling 
To  flow  without  resistance,  silently, 
Until,  with  rush,  they  leap  from  out  their  tiling 
To  tread  the  sullen  mill-wheel  splashingly, 
Then  join  the  river's  force  to  hurry  to  the  sea. 


8o  the  acequia  in  the  desert,  peaceful, 
Slips  smilingly  its  gras:*y  banks  between, 
But  having  little  fall,  its  way  more  easeful. 
Finds  time  to  dwell  with  interruptions  green, 
The  fairest  little  creatures  ever  seen 
Of  semi-tropic  flowers  with  waxen  petals, 
The  while  there  towers  to  the  sky  serene 
A  stately  palm,  whose  roots  make  cunning  wattles 
Through  which  the  waters  weave  their  never  weary  shuttles. 

And  willows  pollarded  in  gray  cocades 
Will  sometimes  intersperee  the  stately  palms, 
Or  wild  acacias  with  their  flowered  shades 
Will  fill  the  languid  air  with  fragrant  balms, 
The  waters,  singing  ever  grateful  psalms, 
Glide  on  beneath  their  shelter  peacefully. 
Reflecting  now  the  green  that  cools  and  calms, 
Or  sailing  out  to  catch  the  blue  sky  free, 
Alike,  in  shade  or  sun,  in  vibrant  ecstasy. 

In  telling  of  these  things  I  (.-all  to  mind 
One  dark  wild  desert  guide  whose  visage  grim 
Was  but  a  mask  the  which  there  lurked  behind 
A  wisdom  one  would  scarce  suspect  in  him; 
A  straggling  beard,  eyes  with  the  light  made  dim, 
Fantastic  dress,  half  laborer,  half  clown, 
Bolt  upright  on  his  pony  stiff  and  prim, 
A  feather  fluttering  in  his  hat's  peak'd  crown, 
With  long  and  bare  extent  of  wrist  and  ankle  brown. 

Thinking  to  talk  with  him  in    idle  way, 
I  asked  him,  one  day,  whether  he  were  wed; 
His  voice  burst  out  much  like  a  donkey's  bray, 
A  harshness  I  had  hardly  merited, 
'No,  nor  I  never  will  be,'  so  he  said, 
'Until  I  have  a  bank  of  silver.'  Then 
The  rigid  stillness  of  the  sphinx's  head 
Came  over  him,  nor  did  it  soften  when 
I  made  so  bold  to  speak  and  question  him  again. 


'  Are  all  the  women  so  extravagant 
A  poor  man  cannot  hope  to  have  a  roof?' 
His  stony  look  on  vacancy  still  bent, 
'No,  there  are  many  who  when  put  to  proof 
Can  keep  a  family  from  want  aloof 
On  what  a  man  throws  wantonly  aside. 
I  know  one  such,'  and  here  a  softer  woof 
Showed  through  the  stony  face,  a  look  half  pride 
Half  reverence  it  was,  he  could  not  wholly  hide. 

'Why  then  not  marry  her?'  I  asked  him  gently, 
'There  surely  is  much  happiness  to  gain?' 
A  flash  of  tenderness  just  touched  him  faintly, 
A  quiver  only,  as  a  knife  of  pain 
Leaves  on  still  living  flesh  it  cleaves  in  twain, 
Flesh  that  quick  settles,  stiffens  into  death, 
And  will  not  ever  leap  or  gleam  again 
In  answer  to  the  joyous  blood  and  breath, 
A  sight  at  which  the  heart,  if  tender,  sickeneth. 

'Twas  then  we  saw  a  far  acequia  trailing 

Its  vine  of  green  across  the  desert  gray, 

And  of  the  symbol  his  keen  mind  availing, 

My  guide  reached  down  and  plucked  from  out  the  way, 

•    (To  do  so,  not  dismounting,  was  but  play,) 
He  plucked  from  out  the  path  a  withered  stalk 
Of  grass  that  some  green  shower  had  made  gay, 
Then  sun  and  wind  had  bleached  to  white  of  chalk, 

And  with  that  little  text  he  organized  his  talk. 

'It  was  the  same  seed  as  the  rank  growth  yonder 
That  weighs  upon  th'  acequia 's  fruitful  breast. 
Think  you  the  parent  flower  held  that  one  fonder 
Than  this,  that  now  stands  here  so  meanly  dressed? 
And  God  above  gives  both  a  like  bequest, 
But  man  has  given  one  the  water's  flow, 
And  this  stands  here  accursed,  a  cruel  jest! 
But  the  two  seeds,  boy,  I  would  have  you  know, 
They  were  the  same,  the  same,  and  to  the  same  would  grow. 


I  looked  at  him,  who  might  have  been  his  son, 
That  man  fantastic,  gray,  beside  me  there, 
I  had  no  word  to  say,  there  was  not  one 
That  could  give  comfort  to  his  black  despair; 
But,  from  that  outburst,  always,  everywhere. 
He  showed  toward  me  a  father's  gentleness, 
An  awkwardness,  uncouth,  that  still  would  dare 
To  break  through  such  reserves  of  meat  and  mess 
That  lightly  touched  on  me,  but  him  did  closely  press. 

I  might  have  been  his  son,  to  whom  the  blessing 
The  living  water  brings  had  been  denied: 
I  might  have  been:  who,  the  same  germ  possessing 
Far  from  the  water,  withered,  sickened,  died: 
In  all  his  actions  I  that  thought  descried ; 
It  was  a  foolish  fancy,  I  acknowledge, 
But  piteously  he  clutched  it  in  his  pride, 
And,  after  all,  who  shall  not  say  that  college 
Does  yield  a  little  juice  along  with  dusty  knowledge? 

But,  now  I  have  grown  older,  I  can  see, 
At  least,  I  think  I  see  the  case  more  clearly, 
And  would  not  with  my  guide  so  well  agree; 
I  quite  admit  the  truth  was  purchased  dearly, 
Though  once  acquired,  has  been  increasing  yearly, 
I  hope  you  will  forgive  the  personality, 
Without  it  I  had  not  succeeded,  nearly, 
Though  'tis  a  method  used  by  the  rascality, 
And  scarce  approved,  at  all,  by  people  called  'the  quality'. 

Had  I  been  of  his  blood,  and  desert-born, 
Or,  of  the  blood  I  am,  were  fairer  stated, 
At  least,  wrere  I  not  destined  to  adorn 
This  noble  art  to  which  I  now  am  mated, 
An  art  I  half  suspect  is  overrated, 
So  few  there  are  who  read  a  single  poem, 
Though  if  the  question  is  by  chance  debated, 
All  speak  familiarly  as  if  they  know  'em, 
Though  most  turn  tail  and  run  if  but  a  book  you  show  'em. 


But  back  again  now  to  the  mooted  question 
Had  I  been  born  far  from  the  living  waters 
Beyond  the  pale  of  any  vague  suggestion, 
In  fact,  I  do  come  from  the  Kansas  squatters, 
The  tribes  of  herdsmen,  farmers,  cobblers,  putters, 
But  then,  of  course,  we  had  the  public  school, 
Oh,  stern  New  England  with  your  school-ma'am  daughters 
Have  you,  by  law,  kept  me  from  playing  fool, 
Or  brought  it  on  instead,  holding  my  heels  to  cool  ? 

The  public  school!  If  once,  I  should  get  started 
Discussing  universal  education, 
I  know  not  when  this  canto  would  be  parted 
From  that  which  follows  next  in  our  notation, 
Digression  comes  again  in  dissertation, 
For  now  we  find  we're  getting  scholarly, 
Should  not  the  word  be  rather  numeration? 
I  must  admit  it's  got  me  up  a  tree, 
My  own  fault,  too,  I  own,  but  what's  the  odds  to  me? 

I  used  to  say  of  those  dark  Mexic  people 
I  liked  them  better  that  they  could  not  read; 
That  call  of  school-bell  or  the  chapel  steeple 
Had  never  their  poor  virtues  Phariseed; 
They  had  a  faith,  indifferent,  indeed, 
Half  Roman  and  half  native,  superstitious 
Among  the  women,  though  the  men  were  freed 
From  any  charge  at  all;  but  no  way  vicious, 
At  least  no  more  than  we,  if  that  be  not  pernicious. 

It  seems  like  drinking  from  a  well's  pure  fountain, 
To  listen  to  their  talk  of  life  and  law ; 
Their  teachers  are  the  desert  and  the  mountain ; 
If  their  philosophy  admits  a  flaw 
'Tis  not  through  lack  of  reverence  or  awe, 
Nor  yet  of  love  or  patient  sympathy, 
And  if  fierce  passion  sometimes  bids  them  draw 
A  weapon,  'tis  a  childish  thing  to  see; 
Such  rage  a  child  endures,  and  soothed  accordingly. 


And  oh,  the  contrast  with  that  snug  content 
That  typifies  our  shallow  education! 
For  us,  the  heavenly,  starry  firmament 
Is  but  a  neat  array  and  combination 
Of  matter  and  the  force  of  gravitation ; 
For  them,  the  silent  mystery  of  the  stars 
Is  what  young  Adam  saw  at  his  creation 
When  night  first  drew  her  silent  awesome  bars 
Across  the  face  of  day  like  pallid  sickening  stars. 

Perhaps,  had  I  been  born  in  their  condition, 
I  had  found  all  a*  commonplace  and  stale 
As  I  do  here,  when  cursed  with  inanition, 
Inclined  at  our  democracy  to  rail; 
Perhaps,  piped  water  running  in  a  pail 
Is  just  as  sweet  as  at  its  native  spring, 
I  only  know  my  jaded  senses  fail, 
I  seek  the  source  'mid  wild  birds  carolling, 
And  down  upon  the  moss,  myself  in  rapture  fling. 

The  squat  mud  village  half  in  twilight  hidden 
Was  tinkling  still  with  sounds  of  cracked-voiced   bells, 
Men  called  to  supper,  and  of  children  chidden, 
And  shouts  for  maids  who  lingered  at  the  wells, 
Enchained  by  Love's  eternal  magic  spells; 
Ah,  youth  and  twilight,  here  by  us  remembered! 
Our  heart  still  at  the  recollection  swells, 
Though  now  our  April  hopes  are  all  Novembered, 
And  sullen  ashes  lie  on  hearthstones  long  since  embered, 

At  least,  we  hope  'tis  so,  or  hoping  not, 
We  fear  it  may  be,  and  grow  sentimental. 
And  if  it  should  be  some  companion's  lot 
Whose  years  when  counted  might  prove  detrimental, 
We  laugh  at  him  with  mirth  not  always  gentle, 
And  say  he's  old  enough  to  now  know  better, 
Though  when  we  eonie  to  reasons  elemental, 
And  analyze  our  logic  to  the  letter, 
The  final  good  is  still  to  love  her  and  to  get  her. 


But  all  the  time  Young  Maverick,  watchful,  cautious, 
Has  slackened  on  his  former  eager  gait ; 
While  our  digressions  have  been  growing  nauseous 
We've  left  him  here  to  meet  or  fly  his  fate. 
The  boy  decided  it  was  best  to  wait; 
So,  slipping  off  the  back  of  his  brown  pony, 
He  left  her  to  companion  her  new  mate, 
While  he,  without  the  slightest  ceremony 
Of  making  his  adieus,  ran  home  to  tell  his  crony. 

Here  let  us  leave  our  hero  for  the  night, 
But  this  time  not  alone  beneath  the  stars; 
The  maid,  Capella,  holds  the  guardian  right; 
Nor  does  he  sense  the  ruddy  flames  of  Mars, 
Nor  shudder  at  pale  Saturn's  binding  bars; 
In  other  words,  more  practical  and  prosy, 
Not  to  be  hampered  with  particulars, 
The  pony  leads  the  way  to  pastures  cozy, 
Where  grass  is  green  and  sweet  and  clovers  are  in  posie. 


CANTO     IV 


Francisco,  su  our  beauteous  boy  was  named, 
Now  quite  unable  his  new  joy  to  smother, 
Sought  out  Bernardo,  also  quite  untamed, 
Some  two  years  older,  not  an  elder  brother, 
But  born  unto  a  sister  of  his  mother, 
Francisco's  parents  had  been  some  years  dead, 
And  he,  not  finding  joy  in  any  other, 
Had  taken  the  brown  pony  up  instead, 
Reserving  only  time  for  supper  and  for  bed. 

Bernardo's  father  really  owned  the  mare, 
But  when  he  saw  Francisco's  great  affection, 
He  gladly  gave  her  to  his  nephew's  care, 
Not  yielding  to  his  own  son's  predilection, 
Who  not  yet  old  enough  for  greed's  infection, 
Gave  way  as  well  and  waived  his  nearer  claim, 
Found  solace  in  the  cousinly  connection, 
Reserved  no  malice,  and  applied  no  blame, 
E'en  taking  proper  pride  in  the  young  rider's  fame. 

But  when,  that  night,  their  frugal  supper  ended, 
Francisco  drew  him  to  a  dark  retreat, 
Then  faced  him  smiling,  with  both  arms  extended, 
Till  clasping  fingers  round  his  neck  did  meet, 
And  on  his  feet  he  felt  the  lighter  feet 
Of  his  child  cousin  swinging  wantonly, 
With  rigid  body  doughty  yet  discreet, 
Well  backward  balanced  firm  the  stiffening  knee, 
He  knew  reward  had  come  with  full  unstinted  fee. 


It  came,  in  childish  frankness,  all  the  story,- 
The  meeting  and  the  play,  the  homeward  ride, 
How  the  Young  Maverick,  in  pale  gold  glory 
Cantered  with  confidence  his  leg  beside, 
And  how  he  seemed  so  well  content  to  bide, 
Taking  the  path  that  led  down  to  the  river, 
Accepting  the  brown  pony  for  his  guide 
As  if  he  knew  the  place,  and  now  would  never 
Stray  off  from  home  again,  but  dwell  with  them  forever. 

Bernardo  listened  with  his  arms  light  folded 
To  calm  the  heaving  of  his  sturdier  breast; 
His  well  knit  body  was  already  molded 
By  growing  manhood,  which  upon  him  pressed; 
Though  of  its  whisperings  he  little  guessed ; 
He  still  went,  naked  save  for  linen  shield 
Drawn  twixt  his  legs,  beneath  a  waist-cord  pressed, 
With  sash-like  end  in  front,  that  quite  concealed 
Reserve  of  sex,  for  him  scarce  inwardly  revealed. 

His  mother  had  but  late  her  stripling  furnished 
With  this  insignia  of  a  man's  estate. 
The  yellow  sun  still  held  his  body  burnished, 
The  desert  winds  still  claimed  their  childhood's  mate. 
But  on  his  limbs  a  quiet  firmness  sate, 
.  Half  boy,  half  man,  that  period  of  wonder, 
When  heavenly  Passion,  lingering  at  the  gate, 
Stands  half  entranced  to  hear  the  rolling  thunder 
That  drives  the  tempest  on  to  flood  her  victims  under. 

Francisco's  story  ended,  hand  in  hand, 
They  sped  along  a  silent  winding  alley 
To  where  the  open  moister  meadow  land 
Slopes  down  to  touch  the  stream  that  threads  the  valley 
No  call  of  playmates  tempted  them  to  dally; 
The  wet  caressing  darkness  met  their  faces; 
The  hedged  enclosures  gave  them  count  and  tally, 
Till  out  they  came  to  wuder  open  spaces 
Bounded  by  bosky  stream  which  the  flat  tract  embraces. 


Francisco  gave  a  whistle,  iow  and  faint. 
Like  the  soft  cooing  of  .the  mountain  quail; 
Another,  then  another,  till  the  'plaint 
Pierced  the  far  depths  of  the  wild  pampas  swale. 
Such  eagerness  could  hardly  them  avail; 
They  could  not  wait  to  catch  the  whinnied  answer 
Of  the  brown  pony,  keeping  still  in  trail 
Her  beauteous  partner,  like  a  jealous  dancer 
Who  the  gay  crowd  avoids,  shy  of  quadrille  and  lancer. 

But  answer  came  in  time,  a  wistful  nicker, 
Conveying  hope  of  tid-bit  to  her  master; 
At  first  she  seemed  disposed  to  stop  and  bicker, 
Suspicioning  an  empty-handed  pastor, 
But  he,  anticipating  this  disaster, 
Had  plucked,  along  the  way,  some  pods  of  locust. 
Not  very  sweet  but  still  a  soothing  plaster 
To  touch  that  spot  where  all  affection's  focused; 
How  often  proffered  sweets  have  females  hocus-pocused. 

The  boys  ran  further  down,  they  were  so  eager 
To  see  the  wondrous  stranger,  not  the  pony; 
A  path  led  winding  down  through  bushes  meager, 
Old  break  in  the  acequia,  somewhat  stony, 
The  flood  had  left  the  channel  dry  and  bony, 
No  matter  if  they  bruised  their  boyish  shins, 
There  must  be  tax  on  every  patrimony, 
And  pain  unminded  is  where  sport  begins, 
And  action  has  no  need  to  feel  remorse  for  sins. 

And  when,  at  length,  they  found  the  ghost-white  stranger, 
That  seemed  to  gleam  like  fox-fire  in  the  dark, 
And  found  he  bad  not  suffered  fright  or  danger, 
And  felt  his  flanks  for  sign  of  branded  mark, 
Indeed  he  might  have  stepped  out  from  the  ark 
So  free  was  he  from  any  iron's  scarring, 
Bernardo  fell  as  happy  as  a  lark 
For  now,  without  Francisco's  pleasure  barring, 
He  had  his  horse  again,  for  making  or  for  marring. 


So  bread  cast  on  the  waters  doth  return, 
So  the  brown  pony  got  her  compensation, 
And  if  the  locusts  made  her  stomach  burn, 
Her  heart,  at  least,  was  happy  in  elation; 
In  medicine,  'tis  called  heart-palpitation  ; 
No  matter:  back  the  boys  went,  now,  to  bed; 
And  we  will  overlook,  in  our  narration, 
Just  how  they  got  there,  and  just  what  they  said, 
Their  conversation,  doubtless,  was  but  stable  bred. 

Prompt  the  next  morning  with  the  rising  sun, 
Or  promptly  sometime  after  it  had  risen, 
They  came  again  to  greet  the  wandering  one 
Whom  the  gold  glancing  sun-rays  did  bedizen 
Making  him  gleam  like  dew  from  fore  to  mizzen ; 
And  when  they  saw  him,  in  amazed  delight, 
They  stood  like  good  Saint  John,  when,  in  his  prison, 
The  glittering  angel  smote  his  aching  sight; 
They  laughed,  hallooed  and  sang  with  all  their  boyish  might. 

And  after  they  had  groomed  their  willing  steeds, 
Rubbing  them  briskly  with  fine  wisps  of  grass, 
And  given  each  according  to  his  needs, 
(Good  socialism,  do  not  let  it  pass,) 
Ability,  with  them,  was  slight,  alas, 
But  somewhere  they  had  found  a  battered  measure, 
A  curious  old  Spanish  bowl  of  brass, 
And  filled  it  up  half  full  with  golden  treasure 
Of  meal  of  maize,  well  wet,  for  any  horse  a  pleasure. 

It  were  a  pretty  sight  to  see  the  snorting 
Young  Maverick  careering  round  that  bowl 
Upheld  by  two  lithe  naked  boys,  exhorting 
The  cautious  one  to  trust  in  their  parole; 
Brown  Pony  would  have  eaten  up  the  whole 
Were  she  permitted,  but  the  watchful  donors 
Used  her  for  a  decoy;  and  in  this  role 
She  surely  carried  off  the  day  with  honors 
Nor  seemed  displeased  or  grieved  with  her  too  partial  owners. 


Not  till  the  golden  bait  smeared  on  his  muzzle 
Had  sent  its  perfume  through  his  being  thrilling, 
Would  he  consent  the  fearsome  bowl  to  nuzzle, 
And  then  there  was  much  need  of  patient  drilling, 
The  contents  were  half  wasted  by  his  spilling, 
But  all  came  through  the  trial  well  content, 
And  next  time  doubtless  he  would  prove  more  willing. 
So  easily  the  tree,  when  young,  is  bent, 
And  man  is  well  controlled  by  childhood's  government. 

When  all  was  finished  and  the  dish  lipped  clean, 
Bernardo,  by  the  way  of  an  example, 
Leaped  on  the  pony,  who  moved  off  serene, 
Unconscious  that  she  might  have  reason  ample 
To  blame  both  masters,  who  could  grossly  trample 
On  her  poor  feelings;  but,  as  matters  stood, 
She  saw  no  difference  'twixt  piece  and  sample, 
And  did  not  question  that  both  things  were  good, 
Such  disposition  rare,  when  met,  can't  be  withstood. 

And  when  Young  Maverick,  seeing  the  equestrian, 
Felt  in  himself  a  sense  of  something  lacking, 
And  saw  the  same  to  yearn  in  the  pedestrian, 
With  gentle  invitation,  slightly  backing, 
He  gave  himself,  with  muscles  softly  slacking, 
To  stiffen  quick  in  forward  leap  and  bound, 
As,  swiftly  after  gay  Bernardo  tracking, 
The  two  skimmed  over  the  uneven  ground, 
A  daintier  two,  in  truth,  could  scarcely  well  be  found. 

For  while  Bernardo  was  of  fine  bronze  molded, 
With  grace  as  firm  as  shaped  by  Donatello, 
Francisco  from  his  horse  was  softly  golded 
With  intoned  amber-light  so  mild  and  mellow, 
Old  ivory  from  long  use  shows  ^uch  yellow 
As  gleamed  adown  his  half-translucent  thighs, 
Bucephalus,  I  think  bore  such  a  fellow, 
But  this  steed  had  no  need  of  wings  to  rise, 
Instead  he  brought  to  eartli  wide  Heaven's  Paradise. 


They  skirted  the  mud  village,  leaving  wide 
A  space  of  silence  round  its  morning  chatter, 
They  were  not  certain  what  might  there  betide, 
And  this  first  morning  beckoned  wilder  matter; 
Along  smooth  sands  the  horses'  hoofs'  pit-patter 
Was  talk  enough  in  their  still  cautious  ears, 
While  wide  the  light  around  them  seemed  to  scatter, 
Brushing  away  timidity  and  fears 
That  come  from  parents  sage,  experienced  in  years. 

One  ride,  at  least,  before  the  ban  judicial 
Was  set  upon  the  freedom  of  their  actions ; 
One  ride  before  decisions  artificial 
Should  settle  with  conclusions  and  exactions; 
Then,  danger  might  arise  from  separate  factions, 
And  some  grim  court  hold  up  in  litigation 
The  whole  proceeding;  till,  reduced  to  fractions, 
The  whole,  perplexed  in  helpless  botheration 
Should  turn  to  politics,  and  welfare  of  the  nation. 

Oh,  worthy  fathers  of  our  government, 
Shrewd  perpetrators  of  our  politics, 
Are  we  so  sure  you  were  by  Heaven  sent? 
Or  were  you  not,  perhaps,  mere  Devil's  tricks, 
His  hoof-prints  show  so  plainly  in  the  mix, 
■I  would  not  wish  to  be  thought  sacrilegious, 
But  despite  all  your  bellows  and  your  kicks, 
I  really  can't  make  out  the  great,  egregious, 
Heroic  patriots  in  repetition  tedious. 

You  bellow  forth  about  your  honesty, 
A  drunken  man  has  also  that  bad  habit; 
And  then,  like  drunken  men,  you  disagree; 
Though,  when  there's  money  going,  you  can  grab  it. 
I  do  not  say  that  Washington  would  nab  it, 
He  was  a  gentleman,  and  not  a  glutton, 
But  now  the  secret's  out,  and  all  can  blab  it, 
He  always  had  his  sherry  and  his  mutton, 
And,  as  for  equal  rights,  he  scarcely  cared  a  button. 


For  did  he  not,  with  tariffs  and  with  bank?, 
Build  up  a  system  for  the  moneyed  classes? 
I  know  that  all  who  say  so  are  called  cranks, 
Or  anarchists,  who  seek  to  rouse  the  masses, 
But  still  the  fact  remains.  And  what  surpasses 
Even  the  self-complacent  class  stupidity 
Is  how  the  masses,  or,  I  should  say,  asses, 
Are  led  along  inane  in  their  cupidity, 
Or  driven  when  there's  need,  ruled  by  their  own  timidity. 

'Tis  quite  the  fashion  now  for  politicians, 
Indeed,  it  is  a  world-old,  weary  fashion, 
To  entertain  the  crowd,  like  shrewd  magicians, 
With  tricks  they  need  not  openly  spend  cash  on ; 
A  war  was  once  the  way  to  lay  the  lash  on, 
And  then  march  home  with  great  display  of  bunting; 
And,  still,  it  stirs  us  with  a  lively  passion, 
But,  failing  that,  up  starts  a  pudgy  runting 
And  gets  the  same  result  by  simply  going  hunting. 

Of  course,  he  has  to  work  the  magazines 
For  all  they're  worth;  (which  isn't  very  much)  ; 
But  then,  when  they  have  set  their  huge  machines 
To  turning  out  the  copy,  there  is  such 
A  nauseous  fog  poured  from  their  mighty  hutch 
The  public's  quite  o'erwhelmed  with  civet  stench, 
And,  lacking,  in  surprise,  both  cane  and  crutch, 
Sinks  back  quite  breathless  on  the  waiting  bench, 
And  hands  in  ticket  'straight',  without  strength  to  retrench. 

It  is  a  doughty  deed  to  kill  a  bear, 
With  body-guard  behind  to  make  it  safe; 
The  papers  tell  about  it  everywhere, 
And,  if  one  misses,  none  would  think  to  chafe 
Such  sensitive  and  self-complacent  waif; 
Besides,  the  camera  is  taking  pictures, 
And  interruptions  would  be  quite  unsafe, 
There's  always  complication  in  such  mixtures, 
And  damage  and  expense  for  heroes  and  for  fixtures. 


'Tis  very  sad  our  heroes  all  are  fat: 
It  seems  to  be  a  circumstance  arising 
From  strenuous  living,  or  from  standing  pat 
When  money  interests  are  round  advising 
The  best  retreat  from  campaign  advertising; 
It  surely  sometimes  gets  to  be  no  joke, 
One's  so  confused  with  all  the  compromising 
He  loses  balance  in  the  cheers  and  smoke, 
And  when  the  day-light  comes,  he  finds  his  head  in  soak. 

Uneasy  is  the  head  that  wears  a  crown : 
But  oh,  a  plaguey  sight  uneasier 
Is  one  that  has  to  humble  and  bow  down 
To  slide  into  the  presidential  chair! 
And  even  when  it  is  established  there, 
'Tis  hardly  like  to  stay  there  very  firm; 
Scarce  time  to  get  a  shave  and  grease  its  hair, 
Before  the  body  soon  begins  to  squirm 
With  wondering  what  'twill  do  to  get  a  second  term. 

Some  think  to  be  a  simple  senator 
Pays  better:  and  with  nothing  like  the  risk, 
Of  course  the  honor  is  worth  working  for ; 
At  the  word  working,  please  see  asterisk, 
With  note  of  explanation  curt  and  brisk, 
That  working  here  means  cheating,  stealing,  lying; 
Bui  how  to  make  these  words  for  honor  frisk, 
Proved  for  the  author  to  be  task  so  trying 
'Twas  left  the  editor,  whose  brass  there's  no  denying. 

I  never  shall  forget  my  disappointment 
At  my  first  sight  of  Washington  D.  C. ; 
As  child  I  had  been  rubbed  with  sacred  ointment 
Made  by  most  patriotic  recipe, 
The  label  read,  'for  life  and  liberty 
And  the  pursuit  of  happiness',  I  think; 
So  far,  pursuit  was  only  known  to  me; 
But  now  I  felt  myself  upon  the  brink 
Of  new  experience.  I  was:  alas,  -to  sink. 


The  capitol  itself  seemed  made  of  paper, 
So  thin  and  white  and  flimsy  were  its  walls: 
From  cupola  down  to  the  very  scraper 
It  seemed  a  sham  for  false  memorials. 
I  hastened  on,  into  its  staring  halls, 
The  Senate,  I  was  told,  was  now  in  session; 
Once  in  the  gallery,  I  heard  the  bawls 
Of  some  cheap  brewer,  judging  from  the  fashion 
In  which  he  lost  his  breath,  also  his  self-possession. 

I  looked  again.  These  were  not  business  men, 
Not  the  vStrong  faces  and  curt  brevity 
We  meet  with,  in  our  private  dealings,  when 
We  have  occasion  or  necessity ; 
These  are  more  like  the  hangers-on  we  see 
Outside  the  private  office,  men  who  wait 
To  get  the  dirty  jobs  that  all  agree 
Are  better  done  outside  of  honor's  gate, 
For  business  can't  afford  to  quite  ignore  the  State. 

We  see  such  men,  sometimes,  collecting  bills, 
Bad  bills  requiring  cunning  or  brutality: 
Their  method  of  approaching  always  fills 
Our  minds  with  doubts  as  to  their  own  legality; 
Then,  too,  that  red-faced  shifting-eyed  mentality 
Has  something  that  arouses  our  suspicion, 
Pretended  frankness  and  verbose  banality, 
I  think  now  that  yuu  have  my  definition 
Of  U.  S.  Senator,  without  a  sole  condition. 

They  sat  there  sprawling  in  their  red  plush  chairs, 
How  politicians  favor  crimson  plush! 
Nor  could  black  coats,  gold  chains,  and  silver  hairs 
Hide  (heir  vulgarity  and  brains  of  mush, 
Their  speeches  were  a  heavy  dribbling  slush 
Delivered  with  a  coek-a-doodle-doo, 
Quite  ludicrous  considering  the  hush 
Or  stupor  that  prevailed  till  they  got  through; 
When  up  another  rose,  and  started  out  anew. 


I  fled.  The  House  of  Representatives 
Was  my  next  venture,  for  'twas  growing  late, 
And  seeing  only  half  of  Congress  gives 
A  false  impression.  They  were  in  debate. 
The  scene  conveyed  me  back  to  that  fond  date 
When,  seniors  in  the  high-school,  pompous,  stern, 
We  blustered,  bellowed,  with  mock  looks  of  hate, 
Each  one  solicitous  to  have  his  turn, 
The  question  being  often,  'Shall  we  now  adjourn? ' 

So  was  the  question  here.  And  all  the  tricks 
That  we  had  tried  in  Robert's  Rules  of  Order 
Were  being  here  employed :  the  aim ,  to  mix 
The  speaker  up,  and  bully  the  recorder, 
That  some  slick  member  might  the  time  embroider 
With  wordy  nothings  done  extemporaneous, 
Till  some,  grown  weary,  hanging  round  the  border, 
And  having  pressing  calls  contemporaneous, 
Should  leave  the  room;  as  I  did,  instantaneous. 

And  I  reflected,  going  to  my  lodging, 
Is  it  then  possible  that  I  have  seen 
In  this  cheap  schoolboy's  scrapping  and  hodge-podging 
Our  country's  legislators,  in  convene? 
Is  our  Republic  in  its  peace  serene 
Controlled  by  this  tobacco-spitting  nest 
Of  demagogues  and  office-grabbers  keen? 
And  do  we  boast  our  government  the  best? 
I  packed  my  grip  and  took  the  first  train  for  the  West. 

So  let  us  do.  Nor  let  us  further  wonder 
Why  our  two  boys  were  willing  to  defer 
Decision  of  the  powers  they  flourished  under  ; 
So  far,  their  right  had  met  no  challenger. 
If,  through  their  ignorance,  they  seemed  to  err, 
The  fault  could  be  forgiven,  overlooked, 
To-day  no  priest  or  parent  could  deter 
Their  pleasure ;  all  had  been  so  snugly  booked : 
They  even  carried  food;  which  night  before  was  cooked. 


When  the  long  day  of  freedom  and  of  laughter 
Was  folded  up  in  darkness  and  put  by, 
With  speculations  on  what  might  come  after, 
The  boys  stole  in  the  house  with  watchful  eye, 
Thinking  the  temper  of  the  place  to  try 
Before  they  came  out  with  a  bold  assertion, 
They'd  wait  for  questions  of  where,  when,  and  why, 
Before  they  put  forth  very  much  exertion, 
Perhaps  no  one  had  noticed  their  desertion. 

Nor  had  they;  for  they  entertained  a  stranger, 
No  other  than  the  wily-eyed  Joaquin 
This  indefatigable  desert  ranger, 
Suspecting  that  Young  Maverick's  flight  had  been 
Along  the  river,  the  wild  rocks  between, 
Had  followed  on,  in  hope  of  sign  or  token. 
Till  night  approaching,  he  had  well  foreseen 
'Twere  better  that  his  lodgings  were  bespoken, 
Since  here  he  had  a  friend  whose  bread  he  oft  had  broken. 

Bernardo's  father  owned  the  village  mill 
Also  a  modest  farm,  quite  well-to-do; 
His  hospitality  and  calm  good  will 
Were  famous  all  that  desert  country  through. 
Had  it  so  chanced  for  either  me  or  you 
To  cross  his  threshold,  entertainment  seeking, 
His  first  words  would  have  been,  with  greetings  due, 
'This  house  is  yours;  we  wait  but  for  your  speaking.' 
His  household,  like  his  mill,  moved  without  even  creaking. 

Don  Gabriel  they  called  him,  and  his  wife 
Was  Donya  Ana,  a  mild  gentle  mother; 
To  have  such  sweet  companion  tlfough  his  life 
Could  hardly  make  the  miller  any  other 
Than  sympathetic,  universal  brother; 
Their  life  was  like  their  river,  a  calm  stream, 
Refreshing  all  those  plants  that  choke  and  smother 
Where  the  hot  sands  with  potent  forces  teem, 
But  need  the  waters'  flow  their  passions  to  redeem. 


Within  their  house,  the  hall,  both  wide  and  roomy, 
Was  cool  and  white  with  even  sanded  floor; 
A  northerner  might  find  it  somewhat  gloomy, 
Having  no  furniture  in  cluttered  store ; 
On  entering  the  deep-jambed,  linteled  door 
One  caught  no  glimpse  of  tables,  beds  or  chairs, 
Only  a  sense  of  peace  came  stealing  o'er 
His  mind  and  body,  driving  out  all  cares, 
And  bringing  gratitude  to  bless  him  unawares. 

A  mat  of  woven  straw  lay  wTide  extended 
Upon  the  ground,  and  centering  on  that 
A  square  of  linen,  white  and  neatly  mended, 
Displayed  their  simple  provender,  wmereat 
The  guests  encircling  either  crouched  or  sat 
All  quite  at  ease,  and  with  a  subtle  grace 
Such  as  we  see  in  supple  acrobat, 
And  all  impossible  where  hard  chairs  place 
The  joints  in  angles  harsh,  their  beauty  to  deface. 

The  candle-light,  with  fitful  wavering  flicker, 
Illuminated  this  domestic  group, 
When  our  two  culprits  crept  in  from  the  thicker 
Outlying  shadows,  with  a  timid  stoop 
And  bob,  but  keeping  eye-lids  well  a-droop 
While  paying  court 'sy  to  the  stranger  guest, 
They  quickly  made  excuse  to  reach  and  scoop 
Such  food  as  had  been  left  them  by  the  rest 
Into  their  waiting  mouths  with  much  apparent  zest. 

Not  one  gave  them  marked  notice  or  attention, 
The  father  but  a  glance  to  satisfy 
Himself  that  they  were  well,  and  made  no  mention 
Of  their  long  absence,  while  the  mother's  eye 
Showed  her  content  to  have  them  sitting  nigh; 
She  sent  her  daughter  Julia  for  more  cake 
And  softly  stroked  Francisco  on  the  thigh, 
Smiling  to  see  what  inroad  he  could  make 
On  the  great  bowl  of  lentils  set  there  for  his  sake. 


In  natural  progress  of  the  conversation 
They  learned  the  cause  of  Joaquin's  visit  there; 
They  also  heard  in  full  the  explanation 
That  legal  ownership  of  horse  or  mare 
Was  granted  to  the  one  who  could  ensnare 
The  same  when  running  free  without  a  brand; 
But  that,  in  this  case,  of  a  breed  so  rare, 
Don  Pancho  would  reward  with  willing  hand, 
And  offer  purchase  fee  no  poor  man  could  withstand. 

Without  a  word  the  boys  stole  softly  out 
To  hold  a  consultation  and  to  see 
If  they,  in  some  way,  without  risk  or  doubt, 
Could  not  retain  the  horse  and  lose  the  fee; 
Bernardo's  father  for  a  certainty, 
Francisco's  guardian  he  also  was, 
Would  never  to  their  ownership  agree, 
For  moral  right,  more  strongly  than  the  laws, 
Would  hold  him  bound  to  see  Don  Pancho's  rightful  cause, 

All  this  the  boys  had  learned,  and  now  in  sorrow 
They  went  once  more  down  to  the  weedy  croft; 
Francisco,  bitter  that  the  coming  morrow 
Should  tear  his  love  from  his  affections  soft, 
In  piteous  cries  raised  up  his  voice,  and  oft 
Called  on  the  saints  to  help  him,  wildly  weeping, 
Turning  his  streaming  face  to  them  aloft, 
Beseeching  they  would  take  him  to  their  keeping, 
Refusing  to  return  for  solace  or  for  sleeping. 

And  when  Young  Maverick  met  them  in  the  dark, 
And  rubbed  his  nose  on  poor  Francisco's  shoulder, 
And  heard  the  dry  sobs  rising  deep  and  stark 
Within  that  breast  now  to  his  touch  grown  colder 
lie  felt  within  himself  a  grief  to  smoulder, 
He  could  not  give  it  name  in  his  dumb  mind, 
But  it  were  plain  to  any  fair  beholder 
He  felt  a  sympathy  like  human  kind; 
To  see  not  (his  in  truth  were  surely  to  be  blind. 


Bernardo,  looking  on,  still  meditated 
How  they  might  overcome  his  threatened  blow ; 
The  boy  and  colt  were  all  too  fairly  mated, 
It  were  a  pity  not  to  leave  them  so ; 
Sadly  he  gazed  on  poor  Francisco's  woe, 
And  slowly  in  his  thoughts  a  plan  was  formed, 
He  was  a  man,  now,  and  the  horse  you  know, 
Was  legally  Francisco's;  thus  he  warmed 
Up  to  the  argument  while  poor  Francisco  stormed. 

When  the  first  burst  of  bitter  grief  was  over, 
He  got  Francisco  to  lend  willing  ear; 
Young  Maverick  content  to  seek  some  clover 
That  grew  but  sparsely  in  the  region  near; 
And  gradually  the  tempest  seemed  to  clear, 
The  boys  went  back  conversing  earnestly, 
Brown  Pony  also  seemed  to  feel  the  cheer, 
The  stars  once  more  were  twinkling  merrily, 
And  night  was  for  their  rest  as  it  should  ever  be. 

Next  morning,  shrewd  Bernardo,  very  grave, 
Approached  his  father  asking  for  permission, 
With  hint  of  rights  that  his  new  manhood  gave, 
To  go  off  on  a  little  expedition 
Unto  a  neighboring  town,  an  ancient  mission; 
His  father  had  a  brother  living  there 
Who  was  a  priest;  for  still  the  church  tradition 
Lingered  throughout  the  drying  desert  air, 
Though  for  the  faith  or  church  most  men  had  little  care. 

It  seemed  a  very  reasonable  request; 
A  widowed  sister  living  there  as  well 
Would  gladly  have  Bernardo  for  a  guest, 
'T would  be  a  change  for  him,  and  who  could  tell 
But  he  might  learn  to  read  a  bit  and  spell, 
A  thing  he'd  never  done  at  home  in  school; 
The  priestly  influence  with  book  and  bell 
Might  serve  to  keep  his  growing  passions  cool 
Till  he  himself  had  proved  at  least  not  quite  a  fool. 


But  then,  there  was  Francisco,  what  of  him? 
The  pony  would  be  needed  for  the  trip. 
It  fairly  made  Don  Gabriel's  eyes  grow  dim 
To  think  that  they  must  give  the  boy  the  slip. 
Bernardo  hinted,  with  a  quivering  lip 
That  he  might  take  Francisco,  since  to  leave  him 
Would  certainly  his  childish  pleasures  clip, 
He  could  not  think  to  wilfully  deceive  him, 
And  riding  off  alone,  most  bitterly  would  grieve  him. 

So  it  was  settled.  Would  he  start  next  week? 
Bernardo  thought  'twere  better  done  today 
The  dawn  bid  fair.  He  only  had  to  seek 
The  pony  and  set  out  upon  the  way. 
He'd  send  a  letter  back  to  safely  say 
They  had  arrived.  The  priest  would  see  to  that. 
And  then,  half  pleading,  and  yet  half  in  play, 
Suggested  he  might  wear  the  drawers  and  hat 
Befitting  to  a  youth  who  changes  habitat. 

His  father  hesitated,  laughed,  consented, 
And  led  the  way  down  to  the  village  shop; 
Bernardo,  feeling  very  well  contented, 
Still  felt  his  conscience  take  a  doleful  drop; 
At  one  time  he  had  half  a  mind  to  stop 
And  tell  his  father  all;  but  compromised 
By  saying  sternly,  now  he'd  reached  the  top 
Of  manhood,  he  must  show  himself  full-sized, 
Keep  his  own  counsel,  too,  and  not  be  patronized. 

They  chose  a  hat  with  silver  laced  and  banded, 
A  noble  one,  wide  brimmed  and  pointed  crown, 
It  certainly  had  easily  commanded 
The  admiration  of  a  larger  town 
Than  any  of  geography  renown. 
A  buckskin  thong  dropped  just  across  his  chin 
Still  innocent  of  any  faintest  down, 
Hut  growing  manly  now,  and  well  bound  in, 
Kept  all  in  proper  place  as  firm  as  pride,  or  sin. 


Then  from  a  pile  of  blankets  they  selected 
A  glowing  beauty;  yellow,  red,  and  blue, 
For  quality  and  size,  as  well,  elected, 
One  that  would  serve  his  entire  manhood  through. 
This  was  for  coat  and  cloak,  and  cover,  too, 
Where'er  he  chose  to  fix  his  future  bed. 
They  tested  warp  and  woof  to  prove  them  true, 
His  father  gravely  giving  shake  of  head, 
Saying  in  his  young  days  their  praise  was  merited. 

Back  to  the  house  to  find  the  mother  tearful, 
But  proud,  as  well,  to  bring,  of  linen  white, 
Wide  shirt  and  drawers,  she  being  somewhat  fearful 
He  had  not  grown  enough  to  fill  them  quite: 
Bernardo  showed  her  proudly  that  his  height 
Was  equal  to  his  father's  when  he  bore 
Himself  erect,  as  now  full  well  he  might; 
So,  without  more  ado,  they  draped  him  o'er 
With  the  long  garments  pure,  the  wide  legs  brushed  the  floor. 

He  surely  was  a  beauteous  sight  to  see 
When  Julia  bound  a  sash  about  his  waist, 
Pale  pink  and  blue  and  fringed  most  prettily, 
With  her  deft  hands  arranged  with  dainty  taste; 
Herself,  a  simple  frock  of  muslin  graced, 
Her  dark  hair  gathered  into  heavy  braid, 
And  on  her  knees,  to  see  the  sash  well  placed, 
They  gave  a  pretty  picture,  youth  and  maid, 
The  parents  standing  by  more  soberly  arrayed. 

But  what,  all  this  time,  was  Francisco  doing 
That  he  this  transformation  did  not  laud? 
The  truth  is  ere  the  dawn  the  East  was  wooing 
He  had  been  up  and  running  far  abroad, 
All  night  vague  fears  his  tender  heart  had  gnawed, 
And  now  he  sought  the  croft  like  restless  lover, 
His  spirit  by  its  own  forebodings  awed, 
His  hope  still  panting  breathless  to  discover 
The  pale  gold  ghost  beloved  that  somewhere  there  must  hover. 


His  call,  the  pony  answered,  faithful  ever, 
And  hopeful,  which  is  very  useful  too: 
He  found  her  browsing  close  down  by  the  river, 
And,  looming  in  the  darkness,  proving  true, 
His  precious  steed,  his  treasure  stood  in  view: 
He  did  not  wait  this  time  for  words  of  greeting, 
But  on  the  pony's  back  without  ado 
He  sought  a  shallow  ford,  where  waters  fleeting, 
Sang  of  the  march  of  time  without  pause  or  retreating. 

A  low  clear  call  to  make  Young  Maverick  follow, 
A  crunch  of  sand  beneath  the  pony's  tread, 
Then  cool  within  the  flowing  flood  they  wallow, 
Soft  on  the  flanks  as  downy  silken  bed, 
Young  Maverick  willing  when  the  pony  led, 
And  soon  the  coming  bank  with  silent  grasses 
Affords  a  steadiness  for  whirling  head, 
Dark  green  with  mystery  of  shadow-masses, 
Beneath  its  base  the  swirl  of  silvery  surface  passes. 

A  falling  shallow  and  an  upward  lunge, 
A  sturdy  scramble  up  the  slippery  steep, 
Down  which  the  rolling  stones,  with  hollow  plunge, 
Like  frogs  into  their  native  shelter  leap; 
Abrupt  the  rising  cliffs,  like  castles,  keep 
The  wanderers  from  the  mountain  wastes  beyond, 
Upon  a  stealthy  path  that  low  doth  creep 
Along  the  river's  bank,  held  here  in  bond 
By  the  rock  rugged  heights  that  to  the  skies  respond. 

Francisco  had  this  path  as  well  committed 
To  his  young  memory,  as  boy  of  twelve, 
With  us,  in  school,  beleagured  and  be-citied, 
lias  his  small  library  to  shift  and  shelve; 
In  either  case  as  ax  fits  to  the  helve, 
So  fits  the  eager  mind  to  what  it  chooses; 
Nor  is  there  need  for  it  to  dig  and  delve, 
It  gets  the  gold,  and  not  a  moment  loses, 
'Tis  but  the  dross  we  urge  it  carelessly  refuses. 


At  twelve,  I  think  we  all  are  geniuses, 
At  fourteen,  we,  alas,  begin  to  know  it; 
Perhaps  it  is  King  Solomon  who  says 
To  lose  a  treasure  one  but  needs  to  show  it ; 
To  learn  our  wealth  is  certainly  to  blow  it; 
And  then  when  all  is  gone,  heroically, 
We  take  the  empty  purse  and  safe  bestuw  it, 
Our  memory  that  is,  and  though,  we  dally,, 
In  time  we  tread  erect  humiliation's  valley. 

Francisco,  having  genius,  knew  it  not; 
He  watched  the  dawn  as  it  began  to  lighten, 
His  gaze  quick  settling  on  one  special  spot 
Marked  by  the  cliffs  that  there  begin  to  heighten, 
Already  the  dun  east  their  high  tops  brighten, 
The  river  swings  about  with  sudden  curve, 
The  rising  cliffs  his  narrow  pathway  tighten, 
Then  suddenly  swing  back  with  generous  swerve, 
And  yield  a  valley  hid  behind  their  stern  reserve. 

This  valley  holds  the  path  of  their  day's  journey, 
But  that  is  not  the  path  he  now  will  seek  ; 
A  grove  of  sycamores  with  green  roots  ferny 
Marks  there  the  outlet  of  a  tiny  creek, 
Brown  Pony  knows  the  way,  he  need  not  speak 
Or  point  it  out,  so  oft  have  they  together 
Lived  there  in  loneliness  of  childish  pique; 
Full  gallop,  now,  with  lightness  of  a  feather, 
His  legs  are  brushing  soon  the  aromatic  heather. 

Behind  this  grove  a  deep  box-canyon  offers 
A  safe  retreat  and  keep  for  their  young  charge. 
As  safe  as  gold  in  native  rock-bound  coffers, 
But  room  enough  to  let  him  stray  at  large; 
A  narrow  pass,  where  waters  there  discharge, 
Has  been  closed  up  with  stony  barricade, 
A  native  fortress  whose  protecting  targe 
Gave  shelter  from  the  wild  Apache's  raid, 
In  days  so  long  gone  by  one  need  not  be  afraid. 


And  through  this  wall  the  stream  had  forced  a  wicket, 
Which  some  ingenious,  enterprising  man 
Had  closed  again  with  light  poles,  making  picket; 
The  narrow  gate  was  easy  thus  to  span  ; 
A  safe  enclusure  was  the  author's  plan, 
And  easily  accomplished  in  a  minute; 
Beneath  the  poles  the  quiet  water  ran ; 
And,  once  an  animal  was  safely  in  it, 
The  strong  bars  held  him  fast  as  cage  doth  hold  a  linnet, 

'Twas,  for  Francisco,  but  a  half  hour's  task 
To  have  Young  Maverick  stowed  safe  away. 
Nor  did  the  trusting  yearling  seem  to  ask 
Why  he  was  not  allowed  at  large  to  stray, 
So  easily  doth  love  o'er  wildness  sway, 
The  boy,  retreating,  called  a  brief  good  bye, 
It  seemed  no  more  than  some  new  game  to  play, 
And  they  were  let  depart  witli  scarce  a  sigh, 
Or  any  hint  of  fear,  they  would  not  backward  hie. 

Thus  was  it  when  Bernardo,  fully  dressed, 
Was  strutting  round  the  house  in  preparation 
For  his  first  journey  from  the  parent  nest, 
Francisco,  overcome  with  admiration 
For  this  momentous  sudden  elevation, 
Slipped  shyly  up  to  him  like  faithful  squire, 
And  said,  by  way  of  humble  explanation, 
The  horse  was  ready,  what  would  he  require 
In  further  service  done,  like  one  who  works  for  hire. 

And  all  this  play  Joaquin  without  suspicion, 
Joaquin,  the  wily-eyed,  saw  going  on, 
And  even  gave  his  aid,  which  his  position 
As  honored  guest  allowed  to  myrmidon  ; 
Some  one  remarked  Francisco's  face  looked  wan 
He  had  not  slept  well  in  the  night,  he  said, 
Perhaps  to  see  the  grand  Bernardo  don 
Such  manly  garments  had  gone  to  his  head, 
Or  made  him  envious  to  stand  there  in  his  stead. 


For  some  unfeeling  ones  had  joked  with  him 
And  said  that  now  he'd  have  to  yield  his  horse 
Unto  the  rightful  owner ;  for  this  trim 
Would  not  permit  of  walking,  which,  of  course, 
Did  seem  quite  likely.  But  without  remorse, 
Or  even  sullenness,  or  yet  regret 
Francisco  was  most  ready  to  endorse 
All  plans  his  cousin's  honor  to  abet; 
He  said  he'd  walk,  of  course,  and  did  not  even  fret. 

Then  Donya  Ana  took  from  out  her  chest 
The  linen  smock  Francisco  always  wore 
When  dressed  for  Sunday  in  his  very  best, 
And  put  it  on  him  just  outside  the  door 
Where  all  could  see  the  dignity  he  bure. 
It  was  a  pretty  costume  neat  for  travel, 
A  row  of  pearly  buttons  down  before, 
And  nicely  hemmed,  that  edges  might  not  ravel,. 
Convenient  in  its  length,  cut  just  below  the  navel. 

Bernardo,  just  in  way  of  mild  suggestion, 
Said  they  might  take  along  a  bag  of  meal, 
So  that  there  need  not  be  the  slightest  question 
About  their  welcome.  And  their  aunt  could  feel 
Quite  free  to  show  them  all  her  kinship's  zeal. 
His  father  quite  agreed,  expressing  pleasure 
His  son  should  think  of  other  people's  weal; 
A  bag  was  filled  with  copious  good  measure, 
And  saddled  on  in  front,  a  veritable  treasure. 

Now,  all,  good  bye!  The  knight  is  gaily  mounted, 
Fond  messages  are  given  to  their  friends; 
The  bag  of  meal,  the  blankets  have  been  counted, 
The  binding  rope  on  which  the  pack  depends 
Is  tightened  up  and  tucked  in  at  the  ends; 
Joaquin  has  helped  and  shown  himself  most  kind : 
Brown  Pony  down  the  street  her  slow  way  wends, 
Francisco,  taking  tail,  pulls  back  behind, 
Leaving  Joaquin  to  watch  and  whistle  down  the  wind. 


This  for  effect:  but  once  the  village  threaded, 
And  they  are  down  among  the  well  hedged  fields, 
Bernardo  shows  himself  no  feather-headed 
Young  fop  who  to  the  smiles  of  Fortune  yields: 
He  doffs  his  drawers  and  shirt;  though  hat  still  wields 
Its  lordly  dignity  of  high  estate; 
'Tis  safest  on  his  head;  besides,  it  shields 
His  eyes  from  the  fierce  sun:  for  now,  'tis  late, 
So  long  they  lingered  there  at  preparation's  gate. 

The  fields  are  now  deserted  by  the  workers, 
And  our  two  heroes  looking  well  around 
To  make  sure  of  no  witnesses  or  lurkers, 
Enter  the  gate  to  their  paternal  ground, 
And  quickly,  without  any  talk  or  sound, 
Begin  to  gather  vegetables  together, 
Piling  them  up  into  a  luscious  mound, 
First  spreading  out  a  rug  of  fragrant  heather, 
Keeping  an  eye  well  out  for  any  change  of  weather. 

But  there  was  little  fear  of  interruption, 
No  Mexic  farmer  likes  the  midday  heat, 
At  least,  in  their  day,  there  was  no  corruption 
Of  old  time  customs  from  the  Spanish  seat; 
The  language  holds  no  word  that  sounds  more  sweet 
Than  that,  'siesta',  noon-day's  idleness; 
To  northern  minds  it  seems  not  such  a  treat, 
We  being  busy-bodies,  nothing  less, 
With  more  sins  thence  derived  than  I  could  well  confess. 

When  they  had  gathered  a  sufficient  pile, 
Potatoes,  unions,  carrots,  turnips,  beets, 
Bernardo  brought  two  bags,  concealed  the  while, 
Within  the  blankets'  neatly  folded  sheets, 
He  sat  on  these  while  riding  through  the  streets, 
Indeed,  he  showed  much  caution  for  a  lad, 
And,  if  his  conduct  not  quite  always  meets 
With  your  approval,  yet,  he  was  not  bad. 
Nor  need  you  shake  your  head,  superior  and  sad. 


For  were  you  not  a  boy,  once,  long  ago? 
Unless,  alas,  you  may  have  been  a  girl? 
I  have  been  told  that  girls  do  not  do  so. 
I  only  know  a  woman  loves  a  pearl 
No  whit  the  less,  if  custom-office  churl 
Has  been  deceived,  and  it  is  deftly  smuggled. 
She  likes  to  tell  the  story,  and  to  twirl 
The  bauble  on  her  finger,  which  has  juggled 
More  pearls  than  one,  I  ween,  while  men  have  vainly  struggled 

To  be  a  little  bad  in  the  beginning, 
And  later  on  to  lead  more  moral  lives, 
Is  it  not  better  than  a  life-time's  sinning 
That  goes  on  with  our  sisters  and  our  wives? 
Of  course  some  woman-moralist  contrives 
An  explanation  for  their  pecadilloes; 
I  don't  deny  that  even  man  connives, 
And  bolsters  up  her  argument  with  pillows, 
Seeking  indeed  to  prove  our  laurels  are  but  willows. 

I'll  none  of  them;  but  back  unto  my  story: 
The  bags  were  filled  and  on  the  pony's  back, 
Who,  now  deprived  of  all  the  morning's  glory, 
Becomes  a  very  ordinary  hack. 
But  patiently  she  plods  the  dusty  track, 
Once  more  goes  through  the  river  steadily, 
Bernardo's  hat  now  rides  upon  the  pack, 
And  in  the  water  both  sport  merrily, 
As  innocent  of  clothes  as  they  from  cares  are  free. 

Then  on  again  to  find  Young  Maverick  waiting, 
Delighted  at  this  game  of  hide-and-seek ; 
They  push  away  the  poles  that  form  the  grating, 
And  spatter  through  the  tiny,  flashing  creek  ; 
The  pack  is  lifted  from  the  pony  meek ; 
And  all  are  free  for  food,  or  rest,  or  play, 
Provisions  plenty  for  full  many  a  week, 
And  little  chance  that  any  spy  should  stray 
Or  give  them  there  surprise,  far  from  the  beaten  way. 


J  wish  I  could  describe  the  rugged  beauty 
Of  this  box-canyon  chosen  for  retreat; 
The  name  is  ugly,  but  I  feel  my  duty 
Compels  it,  if  description  be  complete; 
In  Spanish  tongue  the  sound  is  much  more  sweet ; 
Box  seems  a  word  most  unpoetical  ; 
Nor  does  its  meaning  either  quite  compete 
With  that  wild  Spanish  word,  half  guttural, 
Half  aspirate,  cajon,    and  wholly  musical. 

Behind  the  gate,  like  amphitheatre 
The  walls  fell  back,  from  grassy  esplanade. 
A  wide  arena  where  that  conqueror, 
Old  Geologic  Time,  alone  had  played: 
The  ages  gazing  down  still  undismayed 
To  see  the  slowness  of  their  crumbling  stone, 
Whereon  the  creeping  vegetation  made 
A  soft  green  carpet,  whence  our  palm  had  grown, 
Lifting  its  plumy  top,  silent,  at  peace,  alone. 

The  rivulet  flowed  o'er  this  flower-flecked  meadow, 
Winding  full  leisurely  its  glittering  thread, 
Pausing  in  pool  to  catch  the  soothing  shadow 
Of  the  great  palm  tree's  noble,  lofty  head, 
Then  down  across  the  slope  in  laughter  sped, 
And  out  the  little  barricaded  door, 
Content  to  leave  this  chamber  of  the  dead, 
And  seek  the  stream  along  the  desert's  floor, 
Bounding  adown  the  steep  with  mimic  rush  and  roar. 

We  trace  it  backward,  rather;  for  our  heart 
Yearns  for  the  deeps  of  earth,  the  solitude; 
We  cross  the  meadow  till  tin;  hills  apart 
Cleave  into  rocky  chasm  wild  and  rude. 
Great  boulders  in  our  path  lie  stark  and  nude, 
Flesh-tint-  of  pink  and  creamy  porphyry, 

»Oth  as  the  unkissed  Cheek  of  maidenhood, 

Flushing  with  ro*je-tints  'neath  the  evening  sky. 
Soft  as  a  song  <>f  old    in  Love's  first  lullaby. 


Around  among  them  curkthe  living  water, 
A  maiden's  tress  against  their  rounded  cheek: 
Give  back  our  heart,  thou  rigid  sphinx-like  daughter, 
'Tis  deeper  in  earth's  bowels  we  would  seek: 
The  water  curdles  in  th'ascended  creek, 
Grows  opalescent,  then  more  dense,  like  jade; 
And,  closing  in,  the  giant  cliffs  o'erwreak 
A  tragic  solemness  of  gloomy  shade, 
The  like  of  which,  we  think,  the  gates  of  death  are  made. 

We  go  still  deeper;  higher,  and  yet  higher 
Rise  up  the  rocks,  as  straight  as  plummet  line. 
Should  prisoned  bird  from  here  the  light  desire, 
'Twould  mount  a  mile  in  spiral  serpentine 
Ere  it  could  catch  the  breath  of  plains  divine, 
The  upland  mountain-slopes,  whereof  the  view 
Gives  down  the  continent  where  rivers  shine, 
Pale  threads  of  silver,  sewing  up  the  blue 
Of  wide  horizon's  hem  her  garment  to  renew. 

But  down  with  us,  all  that  we  know  of  Heaven 
Is  that  blue  path  far,  far  above  the  head; 
To  span  it  one  would  need  scarce  two  times  seven 
Of  measured  feet  across  the  zenith's  bed; 
The  same  below  the  stream  has  carpeted. 
The  reverent  waters  lave  our  pigmy  feet; 
The  river  walls  deepen  to  dusky  red, 
While  jet-black  banners  stain  the  death-like  street, 
And  there  is  naught  of  life  the  lonely  eye  to  meet. 

We  go  still  onward,  till  the  rocks,  relenting, 
Fall  back  a  yard  or  two  to  give  us  breath  ; 
Nor  are  their  sullen  sides  quite  now  preventing 
A  little  life  in  those  grim  guts  of  death  ; 
Sparse  drops  of  moisture  faint  green  quickeneth, 
It  is  the  far-famed  resurrection-plant, 
Compact  rosettes  the  desert  nourisheth, 
And  winds  drop  down  within  this  fissure  scant, 
By  grinding  earthquake  cracked  when  struggling  mountains 

pant. 


Spangling  the  sullen  walls  with  mossy  verdure, 
They  ri*e  in  trail  of  emerald  galaxy; 
Wherever  drop  of  damp  their  root>  can  nurture 
They  flock  like  milky-way  across  the  sky; 
We  bless  them  for  their  hope  as  we  pass  by; 
And  back  the  rocky  walls  fall  further  yet, 
Until  a  rounded  well  around  doth  lie, 
O'er  whose  rock  bottom  the  thread  rivulet 
Chains  the  huge  boulder  beads  whose  sides  the  waters  fret. 

And  midst  these  boulders  grow  white  sycamores, 
Tall  otherwheres,  but  here  like  sprays  of  moss; 
And  back  behind  the  cavern's  riven  doors 
Comes  a  faint  spray  that  sometimes  drifts  across 
The  open  well  whose  sides  it  doth  emboss 
With  other  verdure,  brown-stemmed  maiden-hair, 
Whose  ferny  fronds  drink  deep  the  treasured  loss 
The  roaring  waterfall  from  out  his  lair 
Scatters  adown  the  shaft  of  green-hued  breathless  air. 

Another  tree  with  monstrous  leathern  leaves, 
Its  pale  trunk  whiter  than  the  sycamore, 
Like  ivy  vine  the  jagged  fissure  weaves, 
Clambering  from  up  the  rugged  boulder  floor; 
It  seems  to  fear  the  torrent's  rising  roar, 
And  fearful  clings  like  rain-washed  sun-bleached  roots, 
Atremble  lest  the  earth-locked  granite  door 
Should  burst  asunder  clearing  wide  the  chutes, 
xVnd  leave  it  like  worn  grass  the  autumn  brook  recruits. 

The  stately  sycamores  know  naught  of  fear: 
Like  flowers  in  planted  garden-bed  they  stand 
Graceful,  erect,  their  white  boles  splotched  with  queer 
Green  stains  as  painted  by  a  careless  hand; 
Their  calm  leaves  dwell  in  an  enchanted  land, 
No  wind-  to  whisper  them  to  sleep  or  wake, 
Sometimes  One  falls  upon  the  bedded  -and, 
Or  drifts,  a  boat  upon  some  mimic  lake, 
A  yellow  Leaf  long  thralled  that  thirsting  death  doth  slake. 


Within  these  boughs  two  little  birds  are  flitting, 
Two  wood-peckers,  with  gleaming  ruby  crest; 
The  change  of  upper  world  they  seem  outwitting, 
A<  dwelling  in  eternal  summer's  nest; 
The  downy  silver  sheen  upon  their  breast 
Is  like  the  white  of  their  protecting  trees; 
Their  beady  eyes  still  eager  in  the  quest 
Of  vagrant  bugs  or  sky-lost  flies  or  bees 
That  know  not  how  to  rise  from  such  strange  deeps  as  these 

We  journey  on  to  seek  the  waterfall. 
Pale  granite  towers  like  rising  obelisks 
Obstruct  our  path,  and  in  gay  madrigal 
The  blithesome  water  o'er  their  surface  whisks; 
The  clinging  maiden-hair  her  green  frond  frisks 
Like  fluttering  kerchiefs  edged  with  gleaming  pearls; 
And  soft  begonias  turn  leaf  hairy  disks 
To  hide  their  blooms  as  jealous  head-shawl  churls 
Conceal  the  waxen  charms  of  fair-faced  Mexic  girls. 

Clinging  to  roots,  we  mount  a  giant  boulder 
And  round  a  winging  gateway-stone  so  high 
Its  lilac  shelf  brushes  the  mountain's  shoulder 
That  bounds  our  narrow  vision  of  the  sky ; 
A  hooded  pulpit  keeps  a  small  place  dry 
From  falling  spray  that  like  a  cobweb  veil 
Descends  from  out  the  zenith's  canopy, 
A  breathless  leap,  with  high- rung  lonely  wail, 
As  when  wild  polar  winds  lash  the  green  icebergs  pale. 

Within  our  pulpit-hood  we  pause  to  grieve 
That  all  our  climbing  has  availed  us  naught 
Of  cataract  in  grandeur,  when  faint  heave, 
As  some  one  sighing,  our  numbed  ear  has  caught; 
We  sharply  turn,  with  awe  and  fear  o'erwrought, 
And  spy  a  little  trickling  waterfall, 
With  diamonds,  emerald,  and  silver  fraught, 
Bannered  with  fluttering  fern  along  the  wall, 
Purple  of  sculptured  niche  for  nature's  virginal; 


And  just  within  the  corner  of  our  gaze 
Plashes  a  flitting  nyad  from  our  sight; 
Her  mossy  grotto  gemmed  with  thousand  sprays 
Remains  to  prove  whence  was  her  sudden  flight ; 
Poor  trembling  thing  in  palpitating  fright, 
We  wait  in  reverence  praying  her  return, 
But  shrilling  laughter  from  the  fountain's  height 
Tells  us  she  must  all  human  presence  spurn, 
Though  with  the  grief  of  night  our  sad  hearts  dully  burn, 

JVe  look  into  the  flashing  rainbow  falling, 
We  think  we  see  the  gleam  of  tapered  limbs, 
We  listen  to  the  echoes  calling,  calling, 
Our  eyes  the  weeping  spray  with  tears  bedims; 
Is  it  the  brown-stemmed  fern  that  quaintly  trims 
Her  oval  face  'twi.xt  upward  flashing  arms? 
[s  it  the  curling  spray  that  lightly  limns 
Her  half-seen  features  modest  with  alarms? 
Or  is  it  true  our  gaze  wounds  her  with  mortal  harms? 

We  sit  long  waiting  in  tiie  wondrous  well, 

In  which  the  water  leaps  from  out  the  blue; 

We  seem  to  hear  faint  ringing  of  a  knell, 

Or  is  it  of  new  birth  we  listen  to? 

We  cannol  pass  again  our  chasm  through; 

We  only  hope  the  maiden,  finally. 

Will  softly  cur  faint  dreams  of  life  renew; 

We  Close  OUr  eyes:    we  will  not   look  to  see 

Her  timid  presence  felt,  but  not  quite  known  to  be. 


CANTO     V 


'Twas  poet's  fashion,  in  the  olden  time, 
When  thoughts  were  lagging,  to  evoke  the  muses. 
It  seems  a  pity  when  one's  verse  and  rhyme 
Are  running  freely  that  his  head  refuses 
To  furnish  more  ideas  than  it  chooses ; 
But  such  seems  now  my  case,  at  least  in  satires; 
Up  to  this  time  the  spirit  that  abuses 
Has  held  most  lordly  sway  in  various  matters 
Till  institutions  frail  have  all  been  torn  to  tatters. 

And  now  I  find  the  worst  fate  for  a  scold 
Is  to  find  nothing  wrong  to  scold  about. 
Is  it  a  sign  that  I  am  growing  old, 
Or  that  my  peevish  pen  is  tired  out? 
It  used  to  be  the  easiest  thing  to  spout 
For  hours  t  ogether  on  all  sorts  of  rubbish : 
The  government,  our  plutocratic  gout, 
No  want  of  subjects  if  one's  feeling  cubbish, 
The  world  is  always  stored  with  food  Beelzebubbish. 

Perhaps  I've  read  too  much  Sir  Walter  Scott, 
He  always  puts  me  in  such  easy  humor, 
I  quite  forget  society  is  hot 
With  fever  from  some  money-festering  tumor. 
'Tis  easy  to  neglect  the  current  rumor 
When  wrapped  up  in  historical  romances; 
And  problems  of  producer  and  consumer 
Must  stand  aside  awaiting  their  poor  chances 
When  kings  converse  for  me  and  tread  their  fancy  dances. 


Sometimes  I  peep  into  a  modern  poet 
Like  Arthur  Symons,  vaguely  beautiful, 
Who  loves  but  love,  not  caring  who  shall  know  it; 
I  wonder  that  he  never  finds  it  dull. 
For  me,  I  soon  am  stupid  as  a  gull, 
I  get  loved  out  and  can't  begin  all  over, 
Just  as  I'm  now  run  out  of  vitriol; 
And  when  my  satires  should  be  deep  in  clover 
I'm  out  of  words  and  breath,  like  Frenchman  just  in  Dover 

There  lies  a  mountain  valley  in  the  South, 
Turning  its  grassy  face  up  to  the  sun ; 
And,  notwithstanding  inland  desert's  drouth, 
A  little  smiling  rivulet  doth  run 
Tinkling  the  flowers'  bells  in  playful  fun, 
Ah,  me!  it  makes  me  be  a  child  again! 
I  know  the  daisies  there,  know  every  one; 
I  think  should  any  die  I'd  feel  the  pain, 
My  memory  holds  them  all  in  gladsome  glossy  train. 

And  from  the  meadow's  sward  rise  granite  domes 
Mottled  in  pink  and  purple  porphyry; 
Some  low  are  built  to  shelter  dwarfish  gnomes, 
Some  rising  high  in  great  cathedrals  free, 
Buttressed  with  towers  like  those  beyond  the  sea; 
But  naught  of  paths  or  streets  wind  in  between; 
Only  the  grasses  in  gay  parquetry 
Of  flowers  of  blue  and  white  amid  the  green, 
Or  distant  red  and  gold  on  the  broad  plain  are  seen. 

And  fencing  in  the  meadows  rise  pale  cliffs 
Softened  with  blooming  shrubs  and  fringe  of  trees; 
Whence  wafted  downward  in  faint  fragrant  whiffs 
Conic  thoughts  of  wood-birds  and  of  bustling  bees; 
The  butterflies,  like  yellow  argosies, 
Sail  fluttering  o'er  the  billowing  feathered  grass, 
Bearing  from  rock  to  rock  their  embassies, 
Mooring  at  flowerets  as  they  lightly  pass. 
Startling  the  placid  sky  in  the  brook's  looking-glass. 


High  in  these  cliffs  of  sand-stone  lie  deep  eaves 
Scooped  by  a  mighty  river,  long  ago 
In  geologic  era,  when  its  waves 
Broke  from  the  glaciers  and  the  gathered  snow 
The  wasted  mountains  now  no  longer  know; 
Their  floods  have  long  since  left  the  river'ts  bed; 
Only  the  tinkling  rivulet  doth  flow 
To  whisper  of  the  epochs,  long  since  dead. 
Among  the  grass  and  flowers,  by  man  inherited. 

But  centuries  ere  Europeans  came, 
There  dwelt  a  gentle  race  on  this  green  plot: 
Brown-haired,  sweet-faced,  of  habits  mild  and  tame, 
Sharing  the  fields  and  woods  in  common  lot; 
Their  ancestry,  their  end,  we  know  it  not; 
We  only  know  that  many  generations 
Grew  up  and  died  in  this  enchanted  spot; 
And  cities  showed  the  wealth  and  pride  of  nations, 
Dead  and  forgotten  now  save  in  vague  speculations. 

At  one  time  all  the  wide  environed  hills 
Were  banded  with  their  garden  terraces; 
Back  miles  on  miles  the  ruined  remnant  fills 
Each  cove  and  glen  with  walled  interstices; 
We  know  not  what  the  sphinx-like  silences 
Could  tell  of  balmier  days  of  frequent  rains, 
Or  whether  tilling  and  the  growth  of  trees 
Could  soften  up  the  clime  to  yield  its  grains 
And  fruits  which  son  of  man  alone  by  sweat  obtains. 

The  high  cliff-caves  old  relics  hold  in  trust; 
For  villages  are  built  in  those  grim  maws, 
And  streets  strewn  o'er  with  centuries  of  dust 
Give  proof  of  order  and  of  social  laws; 
And  curious  temples  make  explorers  pause 
To  wonder  at  their  meaning  and  their  shape, 
Crude  minarets  like  huge  jars  without  flaws, 
As  if  some  giant  potter  tried  to  ape 
The  jugs  and  funeral  urns  that  from  their  graves  we  rape. 


The  outer  openings  of  these  wide  caves 
Are  chiefly  walled,  while  windows  cunningly 
Admit  the  light  and  air,   a  Tact  which  saves 
The  inward  streets  from  black  obscurity. 
Without,  a  narrow  walk  or  balcony 
Protected  by  a  stuccoed  parapet, 
Gives  promenade  and  entrance  high  and  free, 
O'erhanging  which,  the  rocky  cliff  i<  set, 
And  likewise  drops  below  down  to  the  rivulet. 

Sometimes  a  winding  path  tlie  cave  approaches, 
Up  the  steep  shaded  bank  of  wild  ravine, 
While  mountain  pine  its  plumy  top  encroaches 
The  parapet  and  outer  wall  between ; 
It  is  so  long  since  any  need  has  been 
For  men  to  walk  the  narrow  balcony, 
The  pine  tops  have  filled  in  their  saddened  green, 
Or  stems  have  risen  higher,  leaving  free 
The  vi*ta  down  below,  across  the  valley's  sea. 

That  vista  shows  another  wall  of  stone 
Across  the  level  of  the  blowing  grass; 
A  cream-white  cliff,  whose  shadows  softly  tone 
To  pink  and  purple,  like  translucent  glass; 
While,  perched  high  in  some  perilous  crevasse. 
Another  village  gleams  with  whitened  walls, 
A  mile  away,  perhaps.  No  voice  could  pass, 
Although  the  ear  will  hearken  for  faint  calls, 
As  if  the  centuries  dead  still  tenanted  those  halls. 

But  sometimes  cliffs  abrupt  rise  stark  and  sheer, 
And  caves  have  no  approach  by  talus  slope. 
Undaunted  was  the  ancient  mountaineer; 
He  knew  more  ways  than  we  such  steeps  to  cope; 
Whether  of  swinging  ladders  made  of  rope, 
Whether  of  tree-trunks  pinioned  end  to  end, 
Conjectures  only  lie  within  our  scope, 
If  we  would  enter  we  must  e'en  descend, 
Swung  from  the  crest  above  as  pendulums  depend. 


How  came  these  valley-dwellers  to  inhabit 

Such  swallows1  nests  against  the  beetling  rock. 
Burrowing  in  darkness  like  a  timid  rabbit, 
Forsaking  fields  below  with  fowl  and  flock? 
Did  some  fierce  enemy  their  quiet  shock 
With  periodic  pillage,  burning,  killing? 
Or  did  some  superstition  them  belock? 
Or  was  it  simply  through  their  fancy's  willing? 
Or  that  they  payed  less  rent,  and  so  could  save  a  shilling? 

Vain  to  conjecture!  There  the  dwellings  drowse, 
Niched  in  protecting  rock  like  fossils  bedded; 
They  are  not  ruins  for  they  still  could  house 
As  many  and  as  comfortably  as  they  did 
A  thousand  years  ago  when  Europe  wedded 
With  Asia  in  those  holy  old  Crusades; 
How  they  did  scratch  and  bit'e!  More  like  red-headed 
Young  Irish  boys  or,  maybe,  kitchen  maids, 
Than  wife  and  husband  sweet  in  matrimonial  raids. 

One  of  my  friends,  whose  keen  enthusiasm 
Oft  made  him  first  these  nooks  to  penetrate, 
Risking  his  neck  o'er  many  a  yawning  chasm, 
Once  scrambled  back  in  wild  excited  state 
His  tale  of  exploration  to  relate; 
And  what  most  charmed  him  was  a  pair  of  shoes, 
Straw  sandals  left  together  at  the  gate, 
As  if  the  wearer  fearing  he  might  lose 
Or  break  them  in  descent,  and,  being  forced  to  choose, 

Had  left  them  for  a  time,  and  there  they  stayed 
A  thousand  years  perhaps,  or  maybe  two, 
Waiting  their  master's  feet;  their  tops  were  frayed 
With  use;  their  soles  were  half  worn  through; 
They  looked  as  if  'twere  yesterday  they  knew 
The  pressure  and  the  heat  of  steady  motion, 
While  all  our  history's  detailed  review- 
In  panorama  passed  across  the  ocean, 
And  then  my  friend  had  come,  so  ends  the  pretty  notion. 


Another  time,  upon  a  balcony. 
While  I  was  watching  the  faint  purple  bloom 
On  distant  cliffs,  I  seemed  to  hear  a  sigh 
As  coming  from  the  little  windowed  room 
Close  at  my  shoulder  in  the  cavern's  gloom; 
I  turned,  and  faint  upon  the  window-sill, 
1  saw  a  hand-print,  pure  in  outline,  loom 
Pink  through  the  whitewash;  it  was  quivering  still 
Or  so  it  seemed  to  me,  my  heart  was  all  a- thrill. 

It  seemed  a  maiden's  hand  but  freshly  dipped 
In  the  pink  ocher  used  to  rouge  the  cheeks; 
As  if  in  eagerness  her  foot  had  slipped 
And  in  regaining  balance,  as  one  seeks 
To  do,  perhaps,  when  some  one  quickly  speaks, 
The  hand  had  pressed  against  the  whitened  wall, 
The  imprint  of  those  countless  little  streaks 
That  mark  the  yielding  flesh  of  finger  ball 
Were  left  for  me  to  read,  I  could  have  told  them  all. 

I  did  not,  but  1  planned  a  pretty  story 
Of  a  young  Indian  maid  who  had  a  lover, 
And  how  expecting  him  in  all  his  glory. 
And  looking  out  the  window  to  discover.  - 
But  interruption  came;  I  had  to  shove  her. 
'Twas  Dick  with  scientific  instruments; 
One  gloating  pause  in  ethnologic  hover, 
Then  down  he  reached  in  pocket  of  his  pants, 
And  pulled  his  ruler  out  and  took  the  measurements. 

One  day  it  was  my  fortune  to  have  wandered 
Too  far  from  camp,  and  quick  night  coming  on. 
Now  conscious  that  the  day-light  had  been  squandered 
I  was  considering  what  might  be  done, 
When   my  companion  boy,  a  Mexican, 
Suggested  we  take  Lodgings  with  the  ancients; 
They  would  not  grudge  a  nighl  spent  just  for  fun, 
Considering  the  fad  that  we  were  transients, 
An  I  had  respect  for  them  with  naught  against  our  conscience. 


Accordingly  we  galloped  toward  a  cave 
Easy  of  access;  and,  our  horses  leading, 
Climbed  the  steep  slope  on  which  the  entrance  gave, 
Just  as  the  sunlight,  in  the  West  receding, 
Left  all  the  sky  for  love  and  sadness  bleeding, 
Till  we  approached  the  glooming,  yawning  maw, 
I  now  confess  I  was  my  courage  needing, 
Then  in  we  walked  beneath  the  lifted  jaw, 
A  spookier  place,  I  thought,  I  scarcely  ever  saw. 

We  made  our  camp  upon  the  little  plaza, 
The  axis  of  the  radiating  streets; 
For  this  cave  being  high  had  no  piazza 
Or  closing  wall,  which  oftener  one  meets; 
We  did  not  choose  the  sheltered  house  retreats  ; 
The  rooms  were  very  small;  a  city  flat 
We  think  for  coziness  the  whole  world  beats; 
But  'tis  a  palace  when  compared  to  that; 
Some  rooms  there  were  so  small  they'd  cramp  a  lady's  hat. 

The  cave  extended  back  some  twenty  paces, 
The  rock  roof  sloping  downward  to  the  floor; 
And  filling  all  the  intervening  spaces 
Between  the  streets,  as  I  have  said  before, 
The  walled  apartments  were;  each  with  its  door, 
Its  tiny  suite  of  bedrooms,  more  like  cupboards; 
Three  stories  high  they  were,  or  even  four, 
And  bare  of  furnishing  as  Mother  Hubbard's 
When  she  the  bone  did  seek  that  was  that  laughing  lubbard's. 

While  I  along  these  caverned  streets  was  wandering 
Peering  into  the  long-deserted  rooms, 
Doubtless  upon  time's  swiftness  sadly  pondering 
The  whole  cave  lighted  up  from  out  the  glooms, 
Like  a  stage  picture  when  the  red  light  looms, 
And  then  I  heard  the  wild  and  buoyant  laughter 
Of  my  gay  Mexic-boy,  the  best  of  grooms, 
Having  the  horses  fed,  and  well  looked  after, 
Kindled  a  blazing  fire  to  cheer  our  rock-bound  rafter. 


How  beautiful  he  was,  this  living  creature 
Laughing  against  the  cavern  of  bleak  death  I 
The  fire-light  flickers  on  each  changing  feature 
As  round  his  little  camp  he  hurrieth; 
There  still  remains  enough  of  merry  breath 
To  break  into  a  cheery  welcome  song, 
Sweetness  of  youth,  the  fond  song  lightly  saith, 
The  echoes  ring  the  sounding  roof  along 
And  sides  take  up  the  clamor:  dong,  ding-dong,  ding-dong. 

I  found  that  he  had  spread  our  meager  table, 
A  napkin  on  the  blankets  on  the  ground, 
Arranging  all  as  well  as  he  was  able 
To  make  it  seem  that  plenty  did  abound; 
Some  cakes  from  luncheon  and  some  meat  were  found, 
A  flask  of  water  from  the  stream  below, 
What  more  was  needed  when  good  cheer  went  round 
And  from  his  lips  the  boyish  talk  did  flow, 
Questions  of  life  once  here  in  ages  long  ago? 

And  how  our  picture-city  laughed  and  sparkled 
With  tiny  towers  and  quaint  minaret, 
While  in  the  backward  streets  the  shadows  darkled, 
In  doors  and  windows,  too,  the  gloom  was  set, 
A  radiant  blackness  there  like  gleaming  jet, 
While  round  our  fire  the  blankets  red  and  gay, 
It  was  a  sight  I  never  can  forget, 
And  songs  again  to  chase  the  shade-  away, 
Songs  still  of  youth  and  love,  with  merry  roundelay. 

Hut  soon  the  rolling  smoke  like  clouds  engathered 
Descended  in  a  heavy  purple  pall; 
'Twas  well  our  horses  now  outside  wrere  tethered, 
Though  within  hearing  of  a  sound  or  call, 
Slowly  the  level  sheet  did  fall  and  fall, 
'Till  just  above  our  faces  now  it  hovered, 
And  then-  remained:  not  troubling  us  at  all 
As  on  our  bedded  blankets  snugly  covered, 
We  watched  tin-  gleam  of  moon  that  our  cave's  door  discovered 


Whether  the  fire  that  now  was  burnt  to  embers 
Had  all  its  quantity  of  smoke  exhausted, 
Or  that  the  ground  on  which  our  tired  members 
The  ends  of  which  the  coals  so  snugly  toasted, 
Could  not  by  falling  curtain  be  accosted 
Because  of  being  lower  than  cave  exit, 
I  do  not  know.  Our  noses  were  not  frosted, 
Though  down  so  close  our  lightest  breath  could  mix  it 
Floated  the  level  cloud  to  breathe  which  would  asphyxiate. 

We  slept;  and  merrily  the  morning  sun 
Looked  in  upon  us,  where  the  smoke,  dispelled, 
Left  not  a  trace  of  what  our  fire  had  done, 
No  remnant  of  it  even  could  be  smelled, 
So  thoroughly  the  outward  air  all  quelled; 
We  saddled  horses,  mounted,  and  away, 
For  breakfast  bells  within  our  stomachs  knelled, 
And  poetry  took  wings  at  light  of  day 
Our  picture-city  now  was  huts  of  crumbling  clay. 

There  was  another  camp  with  this  same  youth 
In  a  dead  forest,  I  shall  ne'er  forget. 
We'd  found  a  fossil  mammoth-tusk  or  tooth, 
And  so  to  dig  it  out  we  bravely  set, 
A  giant  circle,  smooth  and  black  as  jet, 
But  very  crumbly  and  soon  went  to  powder, 
We  thought  the  sun  might  harden  it,  and  let 
It  stay  a  day  to  dry.  I  ne'er  felt  prouder 
Than  when  I  gazed  on  it.  A  slight  shower  made  all  chowder. 

But  'tis  the  forest  I  would  tell  you  of; 
The  trees  were  all  wild  locusts,  but  all  dead. 
It  seemed  that  years  had  passed  since  green  thing  throve. 
The  very  shrubs  showed  life  had  long  since  fled 
From  out  their  branches  disinherited. 
The  bark  was  gone  from  all.  Pale  silver-gray 
Were  all  the  withered  trunks.  The  soil,  dull  red, 
Looked  like  the  burned-out  ashes  of  bright  clay 
That  in  a  fire  has  burned  and  crumbled  quite  away. 


And  over  all  glowed  the  fierce  desert  sky: 
And  nowhere  was  there  shade  from  that  fierce  heat; 
The  topmost  twigs  were  white  and  parched  and  dry 
As  were  the  thirsting  roots  beneath  our  feet; 
And  nowhere  was  there  bower  or  cool  retreat, 
But  when  night  came  with  mild  refreshing  wind, 
A  murmur  as  of  singing,  soft  and  sweet 
Swept  through  the  branches  that  long  years  had  thinned, 
And  with  the  midnight  wailed  like  lost  souls  that  have  sinned. 

Our  camp-fire  was  a  huge  one,  and  we  sang 
And  laughed  aloud  to  greet  the  leaping  flames; 
We  called  until  the  tingling  brunches  rang, 
And  challenged  Echo  with  our  boyish  games: 
Such  merriment  the  very  darkness  shames; 
And  when,  aweary,  we  lay  down  to  rest, 
We  did  not  sleep;  but  gave  the  stars  fond  names 
After  such  friends  as  we  might  like  the  be<t, 
And  who  in  spirit  now  might  come  to  us  in  quest. 

We  laid  the  storie-  of  our  lives  together 
To  see  where  they  were  different  or  alike; 
We  tried  to  catch  the  future,  and  to  tether 
Her  feet;  or  fence  her  with  enclosing  dike 
That  she  might  not  apart  our  friend-hip  strike. 
We  knew  it  could  not  be,  and  yet  we  dreamed; 
We  made  the  future,  for  ourselves;  belike 
It  was  as  if  the  present  unly  seemed, 
And  all  life's  years  were  ours,  and  all  with  laughter  teemed. 

But  the  week  ended,  and  our  camp  was  broken, 
Our  horses  -addled,  and  our  goods  all  packed; 
A  raven  flying  over,  like  grim  token, 
Fell  at  our  1'eet  when  the  boy's  rifle  cracked. 
It  took  him  but  a  moment  to  enact 
A  curious  rite:  for,  with  a  bit  of  string, 
He  tied  the  bird,  which  life  so  lately  lacked, 
To  an  o'er-hanging  bough,  caught  by  one  wing, 
Then  leapt  upon  his  horse  to  lightly  shout  and  sing. 


He  drove  the  pack-mules  on,  while  I,  more  slowly, 
Followed  behind  through  the  forsaken  wood; 
He  always  humored  my  mild  melancholy: 
Like  a  fond  dog  one  loves,  he  understood. 
Our  road  made  sudden  turn;  he,  wheeling,  stood 
A  moment  gazing;  then,  'look  back',  he  said; 
His  eyes  had  haunt  of  some  lost  brotherhood. 
I  turned  to  see  the  black  bird  swinging,  dead, 
Above  our  camp-fire's  ashes,  disinherited. 

Don  Pancho  had  been  lonely,  and  had  taken 
A  holiday,  to  see  some  neighboring  friends. 
A  two  days'  ride  across  the  plains  forsaken 
Had  brought  him  to  a  river  that  descends 
From  snowy  peaks  and  through  a  valley  wTends, 
Trained  into  still  acequias.  There  wide  gardens 
Bask  in  the  sunshine  which  with  moisture  blends, 
And  thus  yield  to  the  traveler  fragrant  pardons 
For  past  of  desert  heat  which  toughens  while  it  hardens. 

The  orange  and  the  lemon  join  their  leaves 
Across  a  cool  stone  seat  in  languid  bowers; 
And  in  and  out  the  fruited  grape-vine  weaves 
A  rustic  screen  against  the  passing  hours ; 
And  far  away  the  church-bells  in  white  towers 
Call  out  the  vespers  or  the  matin  prayers; 
But  heavy  fragrance  all  one's  force  o'erpowers, 
And  time  slips  by  unheeded,  unawares, 
Nor  leaves  behind  of  grief,  or  memory  of  life's  cares. 

Don  Pancho,  mounted  on  his  coal-black  stallion, 
In  velvet  suit  beaded  with  silver  braid, 
His  face  clean-cut  as  seen  in  old  medallion, 
Though  on  his  lips  a  smile  of  pleasure  played, 
Headed  his  servient  little  cavalcade, 
Who  came  along  with  spurs  a-chink  and  jingle, 
Each  in  his  gala  costume  rich  arrayed, 
Where  brown  and  blue  and  purple  intermingle 
With  tassels  red  and  gold  of  bridle  and  surcingle. 


Three  sumpter  mules  carry  the  bags  and  bedding, 
And  the-e  are  fitted  out  with  silver  bells; 
To  see  them  you  would  think  it  was  a  wedding, 
Except  the  lack  of  bride  or  groom  dispels 
Such  thought,  but  closely  it  such  parallels; 
Only  Don  Pancho  is  too  old  and  gray, 
His  riders  rather  are  the  gallant  swells, 
And  he,  a  gentleman,  now  on  his  way 
T<>  visit  friends,  no  more,  and  make  a  little  stay. 

They  enter  the  white  village,  deep  embowered 
With  green  of  fig-trees  and  black  mulberry. 
The  sanded  streets  so  white  seem  freshly  scoured; 
A  very  beauteous  sight  it  is  to  see 
The  cool  green  shadows  on  their  purity; 
The  open  plaza  in  the  sunlight  basks, 
With  fountains  round  the  margin  flowing  free, 
For  sun  and  water  yield  all  mortal  asks, 
Where  social  law  doth  rule  and  men  shun  not  their  tasks. 

They  pause  before  a  wide  flat  entrance-arch 
And  Marselino,  clad  in  moleskin  gray, 
Leaps  from  his  horse,  and  then  in  modest  march 
Enters  the  court  as  herald,  just  to  say 
Don  Pancho  now  is  riding  by  that  way: 
When  quick  the  major-domo,  all  a-smile, 
Comes  out  bare-headed,  and  with  gesture  gay 
Though  formal,  giving  greetings  all  the  while 
Ushers  them  through  the  gate  in  royal  southern  style. 

The  courtyard  is  a  garden  where  four  palms 
Marshall  the  humble  trees  and  flowering  sprays 
Whose  shaded  fragrance  the  still  air  embalms 
And  sanded  walks  lead  on  in  open  ways 
To  various  gate-  that  terminate  the  maze: 
The  drive-way,  passing  through  and  to  the  rear, 
Enters  on  smaller  court  where  shouts  and  neighs 
From  men  and  horses  speak  of  servants'  cheer, 
But  with  Don  Pancho  we  will  rest  a  moment  here. 


Two  men  of  easy  grace  and  gentle  station 
Come  forth  to  greet  him,  holding  out  their  hands; 
Of  their  embrace  I've  given  explanation, 
'Tis  very  fitting  for  these  tropic  lands; 
A  moment  in  the  shade  the  small  group  stands, 
Then  passes  'long  the  margin  of  a  pool 
Squared  in  walled  cement,  whose  confining  bands, 
Reflected  in  the  water  deep  and  cool 
Know  naught  of  failing  sun  or  tide  of  frosty  yule. 

The  flattering  sashes  of  the  men  reflected 
In  the  green  water  are  like  jewels  burning, 
'Till  somber  green  of  bushes  recollected 
Is  taken  back,  caused  by  the  pathway's  turning; 
The  laughter  of  glad  friendship's  wistful  yearning 
Comes  echoed  back  to  close  the  magic  scene; 
We  follow  in,  intent  on  further  learning 
What  is  the  welcome  of  these  hosts  serene; 
Liking  so  much  the  king,  we  hope  to  see  the  queen. 

A  roomy  hall  with  waiting  chairs  and  tables 
Gives  sense  of  both  seclusion  and  of  space; 
Its  roof-tree  welcome  also  here  enables 
A  second  greeting  with  more  warm  embrace; 
Full  joyously  they  scan  Don  Pancho's  face, 
Ask  him  a  dozen  questions,  clap  his  shoulder, 
Call  out  the  servants  at  a  lively  pace, 
Express  regret  the  sherbet  is  not  colder, 
A  gracious  goodly  scene  to  any  chance  beholder. 

The  women  enter  from  a  room  adjoining, 
Three  of  them  and  a  gracious  sight  to  see, 
'Twould  be  too  much  from  my  poor  tale  purloining 
To  give  them  each  befitting  flattery: 
The  sister  was  the  tallest  of  the  three, 
The  wife  most  buxom,  but  the  mother's  face 
Beamed  with  such  gentle  humorous  sanctity, 
'Tis  curious  such  a  likeness  I  should  trace 
To  old  renowned  Voltaire,  nor  can  I  such  erase. 


Her  hair  was  silver- white,  fluffed  airily 
Pinch  side  her  brow,  beneath  which  her  black  eyes 
Danced  as  in  fitful  laughter  fairily, 
While  from  her  mouth  the  sweetest  smile  did  rise, 
'Twas  that  which  seemed  the  saint  in  Paradise; 
Her  hands  were  saint's  hands,  too,  with  love  endowed; 
Warm  human  love  that  quick  could  sympathize 
In  such  sweet  service  modesty  allowed, 
Soft  reverent  hands  they  were,  both  humble  and  yet  proud, 

Don  Pancho  sometimes  said  in  gallantry 
He  would  long  since  have  asked  the  daughter's  hand 
Had  it  not  been  his  fancy  was  not  free, 
At  which  the  mother  to  forbid  the  bond 
Laughed  daintily,  she  seemed  to  understand 
This  bachelor,  nor  did  she  give  him  blame. 
Her  daughter  wistful  sometimes  sadly  scanned 
His  sunburned  face  whereon  his  will  had  tamed 
The  passions  of  his  youth,   now  never  even  named. 

Teresa  she  was  called:  tall,  supple,  sallow, 
Devoted  to  her  music  and  her  books; 
A  quiet  soul.  Such  as  will  always  hallow 
The  home  of  growing  years  in  quiet  nooks; 
Pier  youthful  bloom  had  long  since  left  her  looks, 
And  yet  she  was  not  old,  merely  serene; 
Her  dress,  pure  white  like  lilies  in  calm  brooks, 
Gave  her  dark  eyes  and  hair  obsidian  sheen, 
That  is  in  tranquil  flow  of  sheltered  waters  Been. 

Lucia,  the  wife,  was  buoyant,  plump,  and  brown, 
Luscious  and  sparkling  as  a  full  ripe  cherry; 
She  loved  rich  colors,  and  from  gold-combed  crown 
Down  to  her  Turkish  slippers  she  was  merry, 
Like  pageant  in  the  tales  of  Canterbury. 
With  fluttering  silks  of  yellow,  purple,  red, 
Her  lips  so  pink,  her  teeth  like  milk  in  dairy, 
One  quite  forgot  to  listen  what  she  said, 
Nor  did  Phe  give  rebuke  though  justly  merited. 


The  conversation  and  affairs  succeeding 
Were  much  the  same  as  you  or  I  would  know, 
Provided  we  had  station,  wealth,  and  breeding, 
Not  different  down  in  desert  Mexico 
From  France,  or  England,  or  where  e'er  you  go; 
They  had  late  books  in  science,  fiction,  travel, 
Perhaps  behind  the  times  a  week  or  so, 
But  having  the  same  problems  to  unravel, 
Proceeded  to  the  tap  of  old  Convention's  gavel. 

A  glance  into  the  kitchen  may  amuse  us, 
For  kitchens  ever  are  conservative; 
And  what  the  hall  may  formally  refuse  us 
The  serving  quarters  are  more  free  to  give; 
If  you  would  see  the  olden  time  still  live 
Enter  the  kitchen,  with  the  cook  converse, 
The  queen  who  reigns  with  ladle  and  with  sieve 
Holds  more  tradition  than  who  rules  with  purse, 
Or  yet  with  fashion's  sceptre,  which  is  even  worse. 

This  Mexic  Hebe  was  a  stately  dame 
Moving  about  in  even  majesty; 
A  princess  conscious  of  her  royal  claim 
Could  hardly  be  more  equipoised  than  she; 
And  who  can  well  deny  her  high  degree? 
Who  rules  our  stomach  likewise  rules  our  heart 
Her  priviledge  gets  challenged  not  by  me; 
I  too  much  honor  culinary  art 
To  couch  a  doubtful  lance  for  weak  patrician's  part. 

The  kitchen  was  a  white  and  roomy  place 
Embossed  with  copper  dishes  all  arranged 
In  fancies  equalling  old  Spanish  lace, 
If  geometric  patterns  were  exchanged 
For  floral  ones.  The  sauce-pans  all  were  ranged 
Along  the  wall  regarding  shape  and  size, 
And  if  one  from  the  ranks  should  be  estranged 
It  could  be  traced  with  sympathetic  eyes 
To  where  it  graced  the  stove,  whence  savory  odors  rise. 


The  stove  resembled  more  a  holy  shrine, 
And  this  to  me  as  well  seems  subtly  fitting: 
For  what  in  truth  could  he  held  more  divine  - 
But  come,  enough:  let's  hack  unto  our  knitting: 
Blue  tender  flames  are  through  the  charcoal  flitting. 
The  priestess  brow  is  calm,  the  caldrons  simmer, 
No  pinch  of  herbs  or  drop  of  oil  omitting, 
A  gleam  of  peppers  sets  the  stew  aglimmer, 
All  in  due  time  removed  by  wave  of  wand,  or  skimmer. 

A  wide  arch,  niched  into  the  kitchen  wall, 
Shelved  at  convenient  height,  and  decorated 
With  burnished  brass  and  copper  vessels,  all 
Intended  for  some  purpose  antiquated; 
The  doors  beneath  the  furnaces  were  grated, 
Beneath  them  were  arranged  tong.^,  pokers,  shovels, 
And  bellows,  with  chased  silver  richly  plated, 
For  here  is  honor,  even  when  one  grovels 
Amid  such  vulgar  tools  left  commonly  to  hovels. 

The  comely  prieste.-s  of  exalted  mien 
With  black  locks  plaited  into  placid  coils 
And  cheeks  like  peonies  set  in  between 
Gold  earrings  green  with  clustered  emeralds 
Chants  a  low  charm  the  while  the  caldron  boils, 
A  chant  of  love  and  passion  long  ago, 
Her  purple  robe  no  faintest  blemish  soils, 
Her  steps  so  even,  silent,  tranquil,  slow. 
She  seem-  like  planet  calm  that  round  the  sun  doth  go. 

Two  satellites  attend  this  orb  celestial. 
Shy,  modest  girls  with  fire-quickened  eyes, 
But  deft  of  hand  more  fitted  to  our  bestial 
Ideas  of  all  kitchen  drudgeries. 
In  bowls  of  burnished  bras-  of  mighty  size 
They  pour  the  water  from  the  yellow  gourds, 
Cleansing  the  fruits  their  gardens  justly  prize, 
Laying  them  out  upon  the  sand-white  boards, 
A  Feast  to  .meet  the  eye  that  jewel  scare*  affords. 


An  onion  seems  an  unpoetic  thing, 
But  when  we  look  upon  those  glass-gold  spheres 
In  which  pale  opal  green  is  shadowing 
Through  crisping  white  just  where  the  bud  appears, 
We  cast  aside  all  false  esthetic  fears 
And  sing  the  beauties  that  we  see  and  love, 
Nor  lack  we  precedent  of  ancient  years; 
Was  not  the  order  given  from  above, 
Enjoy  the  wealth  of  earth  and  all  the  fruits  thereof? 

And  peppers  red  and  green  are  like  great  jewels, 
And  egg-plants  are  the  purple  of  the  earth, 
And  leeks  in  white  and  green  are  sweet  renewals 
Of  pledges  that  the  waters  give  in  birth; 
And  golden  melons,  bursting  with  their  girth, 
Roll  against  garnet  beets,  while  cucumbers 
Float  in  a  bowl  of  water,  whence  the  mirth 
Of  curling  chicory  the  liquid  stirs, 
Fresh  lipped  with  stinging  kiss  the  oil  but  vaguely  blur? 

I  will  not  tell  of  fruits  late  carried  in 
To  the  wide  dining-room  arranged  in  order: 
Pale  apricot  and  glowing  tangerine, 
With  grape  and  plum  the  pattern  to  embroider, 
Pomegranates  have  been  sung  since  first  recorder, 
Sang  in  the  earliest  days  of  exaltation; 
The  garments  of  the  angels  knew  their  border, 
Their  rubies  laced  in  gold  pass  illustration, 
And  so  1  leave  them  all  to  your  imagination. 

Leaving  the  sweet-tiled  floor  we  seek  the  stables, 
An  anticlimax;  frankly  I  confess  it; 
Convenient  though,  for  doing  so  enables 
Us  to  reclaim  our  hero.  You'd  scarce  guess  it, 
But  'tis  the  fact,  and  sometimes  we  must  press  it, 
Our  hero  is  a  horse:  and  all  this  trouble 
Is  but  to  show  what  owner  shall  possess  it; 
I've  written  now  until  my  back's  bent  double, 
But  soon  'twill  come,  I  think,  like  bursting  of  a  bubble. 


The  men  are  idly  smoking  cigarettes 
Along  the  benches,  in  the  servant's  court. 
Seeming  unconscious,  though  not  one  forgets 
The  possibility  of  gallant  sport ; 
The  fountain  of  the  kitchen  is,  in  short, 
In  this  same  court-yard;  here  the  maidens  come 
With  heavy  jar  in  graceful  even  port, 
Set  on  the  head,  made  steady  by  a  thumb, 
More  to  show  grace  of  arm  than  keep  the  burden  plumb. 

So  it  is  needful  that  the  youths  maintain 
A  graceful  posture  to  set  off  their  ease; 
Their  buckskin  suits,  cut  in  fantastic  vein, 
Are  such  as  any  damsel's  heart  must  please; 
The  trousers,  slightly  flaring  from  the  knees 
Display  a  grace  of  hip,  a  strength  of  thigh; 
Their  short  round  jackets  only  serve  to  tease, 
Through  half  concealing  from  the  wistful  eye 
The  charms  of  manly  breasts  that  heave  with  amorous  sigh. 

Gregorio  was  trussed  in  olive-green 
Broidered  with  yellow  braid,  but  he  was  eating 
A  melon,  and,  to  keep  his  trousers  clean, 
Stooped  over  hardly  offering  a  greeting 
To  any  glance,  however  soft  entreating, 
His  fate  was  sealed  as  is  already  stated; 
Nor  was  he  for  deceiving  some  fair  sweeting, 
Pretending  that  as  yet  he  was  not  mated, 
Such  subterfuge,  indeed,  his  honesty  quite  hated. 

Miguel  and  Carlos,  though  staid  married-men 
Tricked  out  in  silver-braid  on  rich  maroon, 
Still  had  an  eye  for  seeing  life  again, 
Man's  heart  is  ever  but  a  changing  moon; 
Together  they  a  tender  love-song  croon, 
Their  silvered  purple  hats  cocked  on  one  side, 
Life  is  but  short  and  love  so  sweet  a  boon , 
I  hope  you  will  o'erlook  their  foolish  pride, 
If  wives  can  do  as  much,  you  should  be  satisfied. 


But  Marselino  was  the  ever  ready 
To  rise  and  give  the  girls  the  needed  lift; 
Those  water  jars  prove  often  quite  unsteady; 
There  is  much  danger  in  a  little  shift: 
If  black  eyes  dart  a  little  love-glance  swift, 
They  have  the  more  effect  from  long  curled  lashes; 
A  little  finger-touch  scarce  needs  a  shrift; 
His  teeth  are  white  beneath  his  black  moustaches, 
And  lips  are  merry  flames  for  little  starts  and  flashes. 

He  was  dressed  quietly  in  silver  gray, 
Of  cloth,  not  buckskin,  suiting  more  his  station, 
A  sort  of  body-servant,  one  might  say, 
The  fact  itself  sufficient  elevation 
To  give  him  privilege  beyond  negation ; 
Then  he  was  handsome  and  his  voice  so  blended 
Both  strength  and  tenderness  in  modulation, 
It  was  small  wonder  that  the  game  soon  ended, 
And  quivering  bird  was  caught  ju.-t  as  he  had  intended 

But  modesty  is  strong,  and  custom  strict, 
And  Marselino  far  from  ruffianly; 
And  if  his  conscience  never  even  pricked 
It  was  because  his  thoughts  from  harm  were  free. 
A  glance,  a  touch,  was  all  he  took  in  fee; 
He  never  could  have  dreamed  of  clasp  or  kiss; 
'Twas  not  permitted  maids  of  honesty, 
And  forms  are  binding  in  such  things  as  this, 
And  any  lover's  speech  decidedly  amiss. 

The  Hebe  of  the  kitchen,  being  matron, 
Could  favor  him  in  any  way  she  chose; 
But  I  am  not  her  priest  nor  her  saint  patron; 
'Tis  not  for  me  her  secrets  to  disclose. 
'T would  be  ungrateful  if  I  thrust  my  nose 
Into  affairs  out  of  pure  love  of  prying. 
Touch  not  my  corns  and  I'll  protect  your  toes: 
An  easy  motto,  always  edifying, 
And  that  she  knew  to  cook  there  is  no  way  denying. 


So  Marselino  oft  had  little  spread, 
Which  as  his  master's  servant  was  his  right; 
And  in  his  wisdom  never  lost  his  head 
To  seize  forbidden  fruit  and  take  a  bite; 
If,  just  by  chance,  a  gentle  satellite 
Should  leave  a  finger  sticking  up  an  inch 
In  passing  him  a  dish  'twas  true  he  might 
Just  half  unconscious  give  it  little  pinch, 
But  not  to  hurt  at  all.  She  would  not  even  flinch. 

But  Hebe  knew  the  weakness  of  young  men; 
She  knew,  too,  strength  of  women,  somewhat  older; 
She  did  not  fly  to  jealous  passion  when 
She  chanced  to  be  a  casual  beholder; 
Nor  did  her  cordiality  grow  colder; 
She  was  a  queen  of  women,  as  of  cooks; 
I  know  that  many  give  her  the  cold  .shoulder, 
But  so  I  set  her  down  among  my  books, 
And  calmly  close  the  clasp,  and  latch  the  little  hooks. 

Within  the  parlur  at  the  grand  piano, 
Sat  sweet  Teresa  in  virginity; 
Her  brother's  wife,  who  sang  a  good  soprano, 
Beamed  at  her  shoulder,  buxom,  matronly; 
A  sterile  flower  is  beautiful  to  see; 
A  high-walled  orchard  lias  its  fruiting  charms; 
But  when  a  wild  magnolia,  standing  free, 
Wave*  in  the  winds  its  heavy  odorous  arms, 
Why  should  youth  run  and  hide  with  prudish  false  alarms, 

It  long  has  been  our  custom  Puritanical 
To  call  the  body  the  soul's  sacred  temple; 
Religion  is  inclined  to  be  tyrannical, 
And  on  her  sister  attributes  to  trample; 
She  always  has  traditional  example, 
And  points  with  warning  finger  to  a  text; 
Tradition  having  literature  quite  ample 
To  furnish  maxims  for  all  questions  vexed, 
If  not  in  tli is  world's  law,  they  pop  up  in  the  next. 


If  bent  on  architectural  illustration 
Why  were  it  not  much  better  to  be  fair, 
And  look  about  amongst  the  house  creation, 
Admitting  other  buildings'  being  there; 
Even  a  bawdy-house  may  have  its  share 
In  making  up  our  physiology; 
We  hope  the  soul  will  make  its  visits  rare; 
The  temple  is  the  highest  in  degree, 
But  structures  still  have  use  in  wide  variety. 

Much  as  we  find  the  world  so  must  we  take  it; 
Happy  is  he  who  finds  it  passing  good. 
There  are  some  egotists  who  think  to  make  it 
Conform  into  their  own  similitude; 
We  don't  deny  they  give  us  spiritual  food, 
But  food  that  some  will  eat  and  some  will  not; 
And  those  who  eat  still  have  digestions  crude, 
And  gastric  juice  or  bile  turns  all  to  rot, 
And  rumbling  arguments  but  make  the  blood  grow  hot. 

Well,  well,  Don  Pancho  spent  a  happy  week, 
And  then  began  to  think  of  going  home; 
Companionship  is  pleasant  thing  to  seek, 
But  soon  grows  stale  to  solitary  gnome 
Who  holds  bare  rocks  dearer  than  fertile  loam  ; 
There  are  such  men  and  women,  I  believe, 
Give  them  their  will,  and  when  they  sometimes  roam 
Amid  the  crowd,  be  ready  to  receive 
Their  gifts  of  graciousness,  nor  for  their  absence  grieve. 

Men  of  the  crowd  talk  from  mere  force  of  habit, 
The  recluse  speaks  but  to  express  his  thought; 
A  mountain  trout  wTill  see  a  fly  and  nab  it, 
But  not  by  shoals  are  bait-ideas  caught ; 
My  metaphor  is  somewThat  dearly  bought; 
Nor  was  it,  netting  out,  one  of  my  wishes 
To  draw  the  nets  of  rhyme  so  tensely  taut, 
And  liken  all  humanity  to  fishes, 
Serving  it  up  to  you  uncooked  and  without  dishes. 


But,  being  loth  to  see  Don  Pancho  quit  them, 
A  compromise  was  finally  arranged 
Of  an  excursion,  which  would  thus  permit  them 
To  carry  out  a  plan  long  since  exchanged 
Between  them,  and  as  many  times  deranged, 
Of  seeing  the  cliff-dwellings,  justly  famous, 
'Tis  but  short  time  that  we  have  been  estranged 
From  their  antiquity,  but  who  can  blame  us 
For  giving  ladies  place  as  gallantry  became  us? 

Now  these  same  caves  had  been  sought  out  for  shelter 
By  shrewd  Bernardo  and  his  faithful  charges; 
The  summer  heat  had  made  them  well  nigh  swelter 
Within  the  little  canyon's  narrow  marges; 
So  they  had  hoisted  sail  on  their  free  barges, 
And  by  night  journeys,  safe  and  yet  romantic, 
Soughi  new  experience,  which  well  enlarges 
The  mind  of  youth  and  keeps  it  out  of  frantic 
Monstrosities  of  growth  or  moody  morbid  antic. 

Behold  now,  then,  our  little  forces  gather 
Into  the  tableau  of  the  final  act. 
I'm  loth  to  give  them  up,  preferring  rather 
To  write  another  canto,  that's  a  fact. 
But  I  foresee  my  readers  all  have  backed 
Into  a  corner,  righteously  indignant; 
And  since  my  apparatus  is  all  packed, 
I'll  give  you  nod  and  smile  and  look  benignant, 
Thus  warding  off  your  wrath  and  darkening  frown  malignant. 

The  time,  then,  sunset,  and  the  final  place, 
The  little  camp  among  the  doming  rocks; 
Tents  for  retiring,  and  their  fronting  space 
Gaily  upholstered  like  a  royal  box 
In  the  wide  theatre  the  sun  unlocks; 
Nu\v  he  is  closing  up,  the  play  near  done; 
The  Little  group  of  friends,  quite  orthodox, 
Arc  making  bustle  trying  to  put  on 
Their  coats  and  wraps  and  hats  to  interrupt  the  fun. 


When  straight  from  out  the  pausing  yellow  disk, 
Straight  from  the  golden  rays  full  down  the  stage 
With  many  a  gay  curvet  and  sprightly  frisk 
A  golden  horse  bearing  a  golden  page, 
No  bridle  check  or  cord  his  pace  to  gauge, 
A  naked  laughing  boy  with  arms  outspread, 
A  vision  worthy  of  an  ancient  mage, 
His  beaming  locks  tossing  upon  his  head 
In  flaming  aureole,  a  glittering  radiance  shed, 

Down,  down  he  came,  the  spirit  of  Apollo, 
Bounding  across  the  daisy-sprinkled  earth, 
Skimming  the  wind  like  white  celestial  swallow 
Giving  their  wonder  and  their  laughter  birth. 
Don  Pancho  hears  a  peal  of  witches'  mirth, 
As  gracefully  the  gentle  steed  makes  bow; 
The  sun  drops  down  behind  horizon's  girth, 
Having  completed  thus  his  freedom's  vow, 
He  bids  you  all  good  night  as  we  do  even  now. 


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